voir dire
by dangerous for girls
Summary: June's daddy has been dead for months.
1. one

I let him go / as if he were / a fish I'd let / slip into water. (Elise Paschen, "Angling")

* * *

June wakes up early enough one day in the beginning of October to get the newspaper before her momma does. She works too hard, that mother of hers. Has had to take care of June all by herself her whole life, has to take care of her auntie and her two cousins for months now, too. Daddy used to send them money, buy June all the things she needed for class and good presents for her birthday and Christmas besides, but that don't compare to her momma having to raise her by her lonesome.

June don't hold it against her daddy, even if she used to. Can't bring herself to, now that he's gone. She gets mad, still, thinking about how that wife of his kept him from her and her momma, like it could erase all the good parts, too. She don't know much about love, has seen it turn her aunt into a husk of the woman she used to be. All the good things about it, though, _that_ she gets from her father. He used to visit them once or twice a week, brought her momma flowers every time, just because. It used to feel like it was enough to erase the fact that he wasn't able to stick around. She used to like when he came by on her birthday best, two days after Valentine's Day with an armful of chocolates and teddy bears. They used to spend it like a family every year—

Except this year. Daddy's been dead since January, after all. No more Valentine's Day gifts, or a dollar tucked into her palm when he had to leave for the night. Didn't matter that she was already fourteen the last time he did that, he still kissed her forehead like always. She likes to pretend he loved better than any other father she could have gotten; tries to convince herself that him always coming back must've meant something. He was something like a good man—never raised a hand to June, not like her aunt's husband used to treat his family, the same one who left her as soon as she came down sick. Her daddy was a good man, and him having a wife to go home to instead of staying with her momma didn't have nothing to do with that. June didn't worry herself about it, even if all these months later she still feels sick with grief at the thought of a Christmas without him.

But then she grabs the newspaper. Sees a photo of her daddy—handsome as ever, dark hair and soft brown eyes and a smile that melted her momma's heart—with a woman with light-colored hair and three boys. Breathes a breath that almost hurts. She thinks it's a dream, or that out there there's someone with her father's face. She pulls the paper up, still standing outside in her pajamas and a men's sweater that must have belonged to him. It's not cold enough yet to see her breath, but at night it gets close, and they can't turn the heat up until they absolutely need it. Her momma's working two jobs trying to take care of the five of them now, and her aunt Celeste's barely managing three days a week at the grocery store now that she can't stand on her feet too long. She don't make all that much with the Kings, after all.

She reads the headline—_Fallout Continues for Teenager Caught Up in Eastside Murder_—takes a breath when she reads through the article. Skims it, really, trying to see why there's a photo of her father with—children, did he have children with the woman he was married to? No one ever told her about that. Why wouldn't they tell her about that?

Maybe they weren't his. Maybe it'll say adopted in the article, when it mentions the late Darrel Curtis, Sr.—survived by his three _sons_, Darrel Jr., Sodapop, and Ponyboy. June's hands start shaking. Tries to wrap her head around the names, tries to make sense of it all. Paper moves so much she can't even make out her father's face. Knows, however, as she looks over those three boys—brothers, she's got three brothers from her daddy, how'd he keep it a secret for so long?—that every last one of them looks like him. Like her, besides.

* * *

She squirrels the newspaper away in her room, tells her momma it wasn't outside when she asks for it. She makes a big pot of oatmeal for everyone—her, her momma, Auntie Celeste and the boys, Ronnie and Lou. Adds a spoonful of brown sugar like always, slices some bananas for the kids, sips the coffee her mother pours for her. Pretends she isn't thinking of her daddy's face next to those boys', the ways the family of five fits so well together, looking so unlike the pictures she has of her and her momma and her daddy, all together.

Her momma drops her off at school on her way to work. She's got a double today, like she does nearly half the week. Tells her to make supper for the boys, since her auntie's closing at the grocery store, when she can get a ride with her momma on her way home. Things like this convince June her momma don't know what she's up to. Makes no sense that she'd tell her to get supper ready and put the boys to bed if she knew she was going to be out with the River Kings.

It's not like they jump girls in. Doesn't matter that her daddy was a big name back in the day, or that her cousin's running up the ranks. It keeps her a little safer; the boys there don't paw at her once they hear how she knows them. What it _does_ mean is Sonny brings her along, sometimes, and no one looks twice. Brings her to coax someone who owes him money close or to give him a rundown on what the inside of a store they're about to hit looks like. She always gets a cut.

Before that, though, she's got to get through class for the day. Can't focus, like those first weeks after he died, keeps thinking of her daddy's face and how so much of him was a stranger, despite the nearly fifteen years she had him. Dead a month before her fifteenth, like he wasn't still wishing he could throw her a big party like his cousins growing up used to have. He grew up in Dallas, after all, before Little Mexico started to fade off the map. He used to tell her stories about his family, his daddy one of the Irish Mexicans who came back after the war. Couldn't speak a lick of Spanish but he thought it was a real pretty language, wished her momma had been able to learn her own, too. Was real sorry neither one of them could pass that along to June.

He used to say he always wanted daughters. Wanted a house full of them, so he could throw a quince every other year. Grew up around a lot of girl cousins, got used to having to partner with them during a waltz. How could he not want more daughters, when her mother was so beautiful, when she did such a good job with June?

Now that he's gone June gets angrier about it. Not at him, though maybe she should. Today the grief feels brand new again. She wondered for so long what it was about that wife that kept him away. She feels stupid, the memory of her daddy and those boys fresh; she blinks and sees those smiles. So much like her father. How could she be dumb enough to think he didn't have a real reason to stay away from them so often? Just 'cause he wanted daughters don't mean he didn't want sons, too. At least one of them was older than her, from the picture. That had to mean something.

She gets home as her auntie's walking out, finds the boys inside sprawled in the living room, Lou on his belly coloring and Ronnie messing with a paddle ball.

She says, hands on her hips like she's her mother, "You boys hungry?"

"No," Ronnie says, not even looking at her. Lou at least glances at her before going back to his coloring.

"No, June."

She goes up to her room instead. She's the only one who gets her own, her momma with her auntie in case she needs something in the night and the boys together. Before her daddy died it was just two of them in the house. He used to help pay the bills, made sure everything was on-time. Her momma wasn't pulling double shifts at the hospital, worked normal hours, used to drop her off and pick her up from school without fail. The heat went up as high as they needed it during the fall and winter, no problem.

Sometimes he and her momma would have those hushed conversations in momma's room, but usually he'd come around and flash that smile they loved and things would be as close to normal as they could be, in their house that wasn't his home. She pulls the newspaper out again, stares at the grainy photo of him. Same smile. Just like the rest of them boys. June reads the article again, slower this time. Feels her face twist up at the words, like she knows what they mean by themselves but put all together they're gibberish.

Who gets caught up on a murder charge at fourteen? She does the math—over a year between them. Smack in between two brothers, that's when her momma had her. Was her father that desperate for a daughter? She doesn't bother to linger on the thought of how he paid for everything—the River Kings don't ever really let a man go, not really. He had work as a contractor, sure, but half those workers were Kings, too. He was a top dog, practically _el mero mero_, like some of the guys used to say. Did his wife know about _that_? Did his sons? She reads about a church fire and two dead teenagers and can't make any sense of it.

She has three brothers. That, she could guess from the picture. She studies their faces, tries to see what parts of them are parts of her, too. They all have her daddy's smile. Imagines any of them hauled off for murder. Her hair is dark, like the oldest, but so's her momma's. She has no idea what color the other two's are; both look closer to blonde based off the greyscale, but there's no real telling. They should seem familiar to her, shouldn't they? If they're her brothers then they're practically half the same as she is. Something heavy's been settled in her stomach all day, thinking about her father raising three sons full-time and her on the side. Makes something ugly rear up, something directed at her daddy. She doesn't think she's ever been mad at him before, just at the circumstances, but now—

He lied. Doesn't matter if she never asked him directly, he lied, and now there are three boys somewhere on the Eastside who share half her blood and probably don't know she exists.

The feeling stays all through her getting homework done and looking after the boys. She makes them dinner and wraps some up for her auntie and her mother, puts them to bed at 8:30 despite their whining and then slips through the back door, heading south on Lewis, still feeling like her heart's been set aflame.

Sonny isn't even two years older than her, just turned seventeen back in September. He's the son of her mother's older brother, who was in charge of the Kings after her daddy took a step back from his own work with them. That's how he met her momma, after all, when her uncle was jumped in; dropped him off afterwards, in those first few months after her mother's family left the rez. Her momma was the one who answered the door, late at night and up for whatever reason. Her father used to say it was love at first sight, even if her mother was adamant it wasn't. June used to think it didn't really matter, since it led to her either way.

Sonny got jumped in himself the past winter. Before her daddy died. Came over to Sunday dinner grinning real big like his busted ribs didn't bother him, pulled her aside and told her that he was just like both their daddies, now, and he was going to be as big as either of them. His own father's been dead going on ten years now, but that don't seem to bother him. June knows better than to ask.

He rents a room from one of other higher ups, a spare property bought with that first windfall. They do a little bit of everything, the River Kings, pushing heroin to Eastside hoods and pills to the rich kids that liked taking risks this far south of downtown. Make folks pay a tax if they're selling liquor in their territory, get paid for protecting them from the Brumly Boys when they start getting riled up. It's worse in the summer, when the heat gets everyone going and pulls most folks outside. Lotta dead kids in the summertime.

Most of the time they don't do much more than whistle at her, tell Sonny to let them take her out on a date. The new boys learn quick that they ain't allowed to say more—Jax Milagros might keep a few easy girls around for parties but June don't come around for those, and she's Darrel Curtis' daughter besides. Like a handful of the guys' girls, she's off limits. Jax might watch her a little closer than she'd like but that's any man, lately, and her momma said as long as she puts up a fight can't nobody say she deserved it. That's one of the things her momma's told her over and over: can't nobody say she deserves it, if a man manages to get at her like that.

At the end of the day, though, June ain't been raised to be afraid of these boys. Has known most of the higher-ups her entire life, when her daddy would sometimes stop by to deal with the business side of things when he was supposed to be taking her shopping. She never told her momma about those days, but she has to have known. June remembers their whispering, the way her mother looked, the way her father's face would twist into something like a scowl. This part of his life was not secret to June or her momma, and it was always made clear to her that no one would touch her, not if they valued their lives.

Granted, that was back when her daddy was still alive. Still, old habits die hard, and she don't think twice before walking into the little single-story house where Sonny lives, finds him and a handful of others getting high in the living room. There's a girl or two sitting with them, their hair teased up real high like June's never bothered to try.

"Que onda, Blue," says one of them. "Where you been, mamita, we missed you."

She sees Sonny smack at him, say, "Don't fucking start, Alcaraz," before getting up to greet her.

Most of the guys with the Kings are Mexican. There's a few mixed kids, a handful of Indians like Sonny and the rest of June's family, too; the Brumly Boys call them sellouts, sometimes, but money's money 'round these parts. A body's a body. Most of the Mexicans live on this side of town; even if more live towards Brumly, at the edge of Tulsa's limits. 'S why they only take Mexicans over there, keep to the neighborhood boys. Their haunts bleed into King territory, and sometimes they rip the wound open again. But it's winter, so things are calmer. A chance to lay low.

"Whatchu doing out here?" Sonny asks her, leading her away from the living room. She rolls her eyes at him, gets her hair tugged in retaliation.

"Wanted to know if there was any action," she tells him. "Auntie's probably gonna get her hours cut soon, figured I'd jump the gun."

"That ain't a good thing, you know."

"Does it matter?" she gives him a look. "She ain't getting any better."

"Haven't seen her in a while."

"Mhm. How's your ma?"

Sonny snorts. "Only wants me around so she can smacked for free. Why you think I'm out here?"

Sonny's old lady's from Brumly, still lives out there. She was married to his daddy, ain't been the same since they killed him during shootout the Kings had with the Brumly Boys over the borders of their territory ten years back. Things are always a little on edge with them, always have and always will be.

"You selling to her?"

"Hell no," he says, "she can get her shit from Brumly, you think she'll pay me?"

June doesn't say she probably ain't paying her dealer in cash. Sonny probably already knows that.

"Anyway," Sonny says, "ain't nobody making the rounds tonight. Maybe Thursday or Friday. I'll pick you up."

"You sending me home already?"

"You wanna hang out with these bum marijuanos?"

June grins. "Offer me a hit before I head home, then," and he rolls his eyes, pulls her back into the living room anyway. He speaks more Spanish now that he's out of his momma's house, says the guys speak it more than she ever did. She don't do much, really, least of all talking. Wouldn't shut up, back when June's uncle was still alive, flitting between English and Spanish all she liked, tried teaching June for a little while before it all went to shit. It's no wonder Sonny lost it; makes her wish she had someone around to teach her, too.

She leaves around ten, pleasantly blitzed. Alcaraz offers to give her a ride, raises both eyebrows as he says so, and she slips out when Sonny turns on him. She gets that more often, lately, whenever she comes around. They don't try it much around Jax, less out of consideration to her than respect to him. He's somewhere in his early twenties, she's pretty sure. Knew her daddy well enough, stepped up in the spring when it was clear nobody knew enough to get the Kings settled again. Keeps the same rules as him, seems like, means the boys don't do much more than look and talk at her, sometimes. He's something like miracle—just like his name.

Sonny don't like it, of course, when they make a pass at her, but they don't get too rowdy, not like some of the men she'll pass on her walk home or to the store. June carries a tiny little pocket knife on her, maybe three inches, but she's never had to use it. Figures she might as well carry it on her, just in in case. 'S not like Sonny lives all that close to Brumly territory, anyway, so she don't worry too much about getting home.

He _does_ live passed the high school though, and she hesitates a bit before deciding she might as well have some fun before heading home. Hale is where most of the Mexicans in town go. She figures they can't stop them from enrolling in Will Rogers, but it's full of white people that close to downtown, and all the kids in her neighborhood end up at Hale from what she's noticed. Further North is where most of the Black folks in Tulsa live and go to school, besides. Makes sense, June figures, that with a part-Mexican daddy and an Indian momma she'd fit in best at Hale. She ain't even the only Indian there.

Lots of the kids from Brumly go there, too. Makes for uneasy breaks and starts- and ends-of-the-year. The teachers don't mind too much, just enough to send kids out for detentions and complain like their students will listen. June's not too bad at school, does well enough that no one threatens to call her momma and manages to keep out of any brawls that build up between the Kings and Boys. Sometimes the girls get a little catty—Ester Vergara, whose man worked with Brumly, tried starting something with her the spring before, when she was still neck deep in misery over her father being dead. Ester's mistake, 'cause June's daddy taught her how to throw a punch and break bones, besides. Her nose ain't been the same, makes June want to laugh and feel bad about it in turns.

Towards the back of the school, there's an entrance to the pool that ain't ever locked right. It's an old lock, seems like, and with careful jiggling June can get it open real easy. Shake too hard and it might pop right off, though, and she don't want to risk losing access to the water, cold as it is year-round. She sneaks in like always, finds the wide, cool space open for the taking. The only lights on are the low ones, close to the floor so that the janitors don't trip over anything when they come by to start opening up the school doors at six. It's barely ten, June guesses, ten-thirty at most. Her momma won't be home until after midnight. She's got at least an hour, then, to swim to her heart's desire.

Even though she knows she's all alone, June has to sweep the room quickly, just to make sure. She braids her hair while she does so, one that reaches the middle of her back real easily. Her momma don't like her with short hair, and it was one of the few things her daddy ever deferred to her. Said he preferred it long but since it wasn't his he didn't much care—_But don't upset your mother, Junie, do what she says._

She strips out of her clothes, folds up her slacks carefully and her blouse over it, socks tucked into her shoes. The low light gives everything an eerie blue-green sheen, the water almost too clear. She dips one toe in, shivers despite knowing it was going to be cold. Walking home in soaked underwear is going to be brutal, but she hasn't gone swimming in what feels like forever, even if it was probably closer to only a few weeks ago. June tries not to come by too often, doesn't want to risk someone catching her and getting the lock fixed, has been protective of it ever since she discovered it late in the spring.

Seemed like she couldn't catch up to herself, those first few months after the accident. Found herself forgetful like she never was, only eating when reminded to and barely able to sleep. One day after dinner she realized she left a book she needed for a report in her locker, ran back to the school hoping it was still open for track or baseball or any other club that might have been meeting. Checked all the doors and found this one instead. She comes by at least once a month, if not twice; she's always loved the water. Before her auntie came to live with them she used to go visit her on the rez, go swimming in Skiatook. She could hold her breath longest out of all the kids her age, was a strong swimmer besides.

Swimming in the school pool's not the same as being in the lake but it's close enough. She walks off the edge at the very deep end, lets her body sink and her arms float up, pretends she's falling. She used to spend summers up on the rez, with cousins and friends and all sorts of extended family she hasn't seen since last Christmas. She knows better to ask her mother if they'll be going this year—there's no way she'll be able to get work off, and her auntie's still getting treatment, besides.

But being in the water means she can pretend none of that's true, can cut through the water like only she can. Swims edge to edge like they teach the boys on the swim team, flips when she turns and pushes off with her feet. All she has to do is remember how to breathe, and she doesn't even need to think about how best to turn her head. Comes naturally. Feels her braid heavy against her back and pumps her arms and she's good, mindless for however many minutes she needs to be.

Afterwards she pulls herself up to the edge, lets her lower legs trail in the water while she lies in the tile. Usually she brings a towel, but today June'll have to let herself airdry just a bit before heading home. Everything feels real soft—probably from the pot. Her muscles burn just enough to guarantee her a good night's rest. Good.

Sometimes it feels like she'll never catch up, for all she lost back in the spring.

* * *

Later that week, Sonny comes to pick her up like he promised.

Her momma knows he runs with the Kings. Watches him like she's suspicious sometimes, others like she's worried. June's not sure if her auntie knows, but she's so sick lately it wouldn't be surprising if she doesn't have a clue. The boys clamber over him—Sonny's charismatic, brings them sweets every time he visits besides. He stays for dinner, lets Auntie Celeste fuss over him like she ain't skin and bones now, too. Sonny at least can say it's a growth spurt, and not that he does more than just smoke with the Kings and whatever girls they bring over.

He compliments the meal and then asks if he can take June out for a joyride.

"I'll bring her right back, titi," he says, "promise. Just got the tires rotated, wanna make sure they're all good."

"And you need my only daughter for that, baby?" June's momma asks. She raises her eyebrows, has her hands on her hips. There's something like a smile on her mouth, though, so June heads upstairs to grab a sweater instead of listening to Sonny try to convince her.

By the time she gets back her momma's lecturing him, says, "Don't keep her out too late, and don't get into any trouble, you hear?" She turns to June next, eyes hard like her daddy's never were. "You hear? Be _careful_."

There's no way she doesn't know June's running around with the Kings. She's not sure if that should make her more guilty or less.

Sonny's driving a tough looking mustang, silvery in the moonlight. He ain't had it that long, but he treats it like a baby, always double checking it for scratches, getting it waxed regularly and preening when it gets a double-take.

"You love this car like a girl," June tells him, and he tugs on her hair as he usually does before ducking into the driver's seat. She crosses over to the other side quickly, eager to get out of the house like usual.

"Leave my baby alone," he tells her, grins when she snorts. "You helping us out tonight?"

"What job you got?"

"Protection fee," Sonny says, "only gave us half last month, hoping he don't try the same thing today."

"And you going mid-week'll make him cough it up?"

"A gun might."

"Where is it?" June moves to open the glove compartment and his hand shoots out, fingers over hers.

"June," he says warningly, "I don't want you touching that shit."

"I know how to handle a gun," she says, like it ain't a lie.

She's handled exactly one, an old handgun that must've belonged to her daddy. She found it while digging through her momma's closet, back in middle school. She was looking for—she can't even remember what. It had been so cold in her hand, surprisingly heavy. She was so surprised when she came across it she nearly dropped it into the mess of shoes and clothes she made, having carefully peeled back several layers of tissue paper in an effort to figure out what it was when the little lump appeared from seemingly nowhere. She carefully tucked it back into the corner of where she found it, and when she looked for it a few months later—when it was just her at home for once—it was gone.

"Lie again," he tells her, dropping her hand to put both of his on the wheel again. "I don't really need you to come along, anyway."

"So you ain't paying me, huh? Pull over, then."

"Christ," he laughs, shoving her a little, "I'll give you some'a my cut, alright? Celeste looks awful. She still working?"

"Barely," she says, somber now. "Been at three days a week at the grocer, you know, since the doctors said she was okay to work again, but it's still too much. She's so tired."

"Gonna quit again?"

"I don't think we can afford it," she says quietly. "Momma won't let me get a real job, so I can't even help."

"She'll let you run around with me alright."

"She probably don't figure you as one to take me to a stick-up."

"She should," he says, more serious than she's heard him in months, more serious than when he came by to see them after news of her daddy broke. Sonny might as well be her brother—part of her smarts, to think that she has real ones she don't know a thing about, 'sides what's in the paper. What a crock. "She knows what I'm up to with the Kings, you know."

"Not _exactly_ what you're doing," she says, "else I wouldn't be out here with you today, huh?"

"Can it, Blue," he says. He only calls her Blue when they're out like this together, or surrounded by Kings or folks who know him through them, or…well, he don't call her June outside the house actually, now that she's thinking about it. She's been Blue to everyone since her daddy died. Wasn't around often enough before that to need it. She likes how it sounds, even on the mouths of men like Alcaraz. She's Blue. Not _June_, not _Junie_, not _Miss Blue Thunder_, the name making her teacher's faces screw up in distaste. Just Blue. Makes her almost feel like somebody, even if she should want to be more than somebody to the River Kings.

"Who owns the store, anyway?"

"Some geezer," he says, "'s real close to Brumly territory, but we've had it out with them over it enough that it ain't going nowhere until it gets hot again in the spring. The guy likes it better with them, seems like, else he woulda given us our cash when we asked nicely."

"Did you ask nicely?" June grins in spite of herself. Figures, Sonny would try to reduce the tensions between the River Kings and Brumly like that. They've been at each other throats since at least the summer Sonny's daddy got killed, ten years ago. Wouldn't surprise her if it were longer, not that she'd really know.

Sonny brings her around but she's just one of the good girls. Isn't pawed at, the way some of the girls that come around might be. June knows what they get up to, when they disappear to the rooms in the house and come back out a little worse for wear. She's off-limits, like Alcaraz's friend Eleonor who lets him stash product at her place sometimes, or Jax's baby mama Rosalinda. Girls who come around sometimes but leave the exact same way they arrived: not a hair out of place. Maybe it's a privilege, but it's all June's ever known. She's not sure if she should expect differently.

They pull up to a corner store, near Brumly, like Sonny said. It's a tired-looking storefront, paint chipping, advertisements pasted up against the windows bleached from years of sun. The lights inside are white, seems like, but like the rest of the building seem to be on their last legs. June can hear the faint sounds of cars driving past them, on the street they just pulled off of, and watches through the window as a woman pays for her groceries and then hustles her two kids out of the store and into their car, on the other side of the parking lot. Funny. They're a boy and girl, too.

"Want me to head in?" she asks. She knows the answer. This is usually how it goes.

"Yeah," he says, "start at the back. Come up to the window so I can see you once it's clear."

She gets out of the car. Offers a smile to the old man behind the counter when she walks in, gets a cold stare in return. She wonders if she's that much darker than the woman who walked out before her, heads towards the back of the store to start her sweep. This isn't real men's work; it's probably why Jax ain't said anything about Sonny bringing her on these jobs. She lifts a few things—a book of crossword puzzles, a candy bar, a pack of sponges. The old man at the counter half-watches her but he don't suspect of her of being anything other than some brown girl, it seems like.

Ain't like he's white, anyway. She glances up at him while she lingers near the refrigerator. He might not be as dark as she is, but this close to Brumly there's no way he's not a little bit colored. June would know.

"Hey," he says, voice gruff, "you gonna buy something, girl? You cain't just stand around and look."

"Sure," she says, finally moving up the aisle nearest the window. Doesn't bother looking out the window to check if Sonny saw her. She buys two cokes and thanks the man again, gets a stiff nod in response. Her shoulders brush Sonny's when he walks in as she walks out, doesn't look back to see if the man knows what he's there for. Goes to sit in the car, watches with something like intrigue as Sonny leans over the counter and starts talking to the guy.

She looks away to dig through the center console, finds a bottle opener like she expected. When she lifts the now-open bottle to her lips Sonny's shoving the guy away from him by the collar. He tucks a wad of cash into his coat, says something that makes his lips curl up as he does so, and then leaves the store.

"Son of a bitch," he says when he climbs into the car. The old man is watching them. June lets her hair fall over her face, wonders if he realizes the two of them showed up together. "Wanted to fucking _talk_, like we ain't been over this. Fucking asshole."

"You get your money?" she says, and offers him the opened bottle. He takes a swig, hands it back. Starts the car up.

"'Course I did."

"You got anywhere else to hit tonight?"

"Naw. Told titi I'd take you home early, didn't I?"

"Right," she says, and takes a sip of her coke. The ride back is mostly quiet, some Rolling Stones song playing on the radio. When she looks at Sonny he looks strange, the shadows from other cars driving past them throwing his features into sharp contrast. As they near the high school she says, "Hey. Pull up in the back real quick."

He glances at her. "What for?"

"You ain't ever sneak in?"

"Into the _school_? Blue, I ain't been back since I finished out last year."

"My momma's still mad about that."

"That's fine," he says, but pulls into the back parking lot like she told him to.

"Park closer."

"What for?"

"You really ain't gone in after hours, huh?"

He parks a few spots down from the pool door. June feels giddy.

"What are we here for?" Sonny asks her.

"C'mon," she says, climbing out of the car, "trust me."

"You into breaking 'n' entering now, huh? Maybe we should let broads do their own jobs."

"Don't be stupid," she drawls, "'s just the pool. When's the last you went swimming?"

"August," he says, "when it was _summer_." He doesn't look terribly impressed with her when she turns to make sure he's following, but there's a glint in his eye that has her jiggling the doorknob just a bit less carefully than she normally would. She double checks it once it's open, figures it's fine. Once inside it's the same view as always, almost like the room is glowing. She can't keep the grin off her face.

Sonny whistles. "When'd you figure this out?"

"May," she says, "forgot a book."

"Aw, June," he says, and laughs when she shoves at him. "You really about to jump in _now_? It's cold already."

"It's barely October," she says, sweeping the room with her eyes instinctually. She's glad she wore a skirt today, gladder still she didn't bother with tights, even if she was cold on her walk home from school. She takes a seat near the shallow end, dipping her legs in up to her knee and watching Sonny pace around the room.

"You ain't run into nobody down here?"

"'S nearly ten," she says, "who's gonna be around?"

"Nobody knows about the door?"

She shrugs. "Dunno. Ain't seen anyone here before."

"You come around a lot?"

"Sometimes."

Sonny nods. Keeps prowling around, like he can't get himself to sit still. He's usually more easy-going, but June figures he's still thinking about the store and whatever work they might have him doing over the weekend. They usually send him out for collections, anyway. No doubt there's some other place in King territory he'll need to hit up; if it were June, she'd probably be thinking about it, too.

He might as well be her brother, she thinks. They've always been close enough. He's always looked after her like one, anyway. Did _he_ know? Thoughts of her father's—_other_ family are still hovering over her, lingering like something at the corner of her eye that disappears the second she tries to face it head on. Her momma must know, but then, that might not mean anything. Her momma knows Sonny runs with the River Kings and they're still here, after all, post-job.

She says, "What's got you worked up? That wasn't a bad job."

He comes to sit next to her, puts his shoes and socks next to hers and puts his feet in the water, too. Says nothing for a moment, more like himself than he's been since they got there. Almost calm.

"They're giving me a new job," he says finally.

June, kicking her feet the slightest bit in the water, stills. Turns her head to look at him, even if he's staring out at the rest of the room. "Yeah? New responsibilities, then?"

"I can't tell you," he says. Voice a little empty, suddenly. "This ain't women's work, you know. You probably shouldn't even be coming 'round, now, with your daddy gone."

She stiffens. "You telling me to get lost?"

"Naw," he says, "just reminding you."

"I don't need no reminding. I can take care of myself."

"Didn't say you couldn't," he says. Takes a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket and then just holds them. "Still can't tell you 'bout the job, 's all."

"Fine," she says. Looks away, knows it's clear she's not happy about it. Says, instead, "What do you remember about my daddy, anyway?"

"Plenty," Sonny says slowly, "ain't been a year since—you know."

"Yeah." June says nothing for a long moment, lets her legs float up on the water. Looks at Sonny again, says, "They mentioned him in the paper this week."

"What?"

"Mhm," she says, brings a hand up to chew on her thumbnail. She fixes him with a look she learned from her momma, watches as it makes him straighten up from his slouch next to her. She pulls her legs out of the water, sits so that she's facing him head on. Feels—different, all of a sudden. Like a fire's started up in her. "You know he had another family."

She doesn't say it like a question. Sonny flinches.

"You _knew_." It sounds like an accusation. It hurts, just saying it.

"I heard some things," Sonny says, holding his hands up like she might start hitting him. She did that a lot, growing up. "From Jax. From my ma, even, but you know I ain't listening to a word she says when she's doped up."

"He has three sons," June says, jaw tight, watches Sonny's eyebrows furrow in something like confusion. "What'd you hear?"

"Like I said, I only heard a couple'a things," he says. "Nothing big. Something about the wife, you know, and getting mouths fed. Figured it was shit your ma ain't tell you. Why's he in the paper if he's been dead for months?"

"One'a his other kids got caught up on a murder charge," she says. Sonny looks intrigued now. "Guess they ain't much better than us."

"They're white, huh."

"You know how them kids act, don't you? Fixing to forget there's a bunch of colored folks in this town."

Sonny rubs his jaw. He has a pitiful attempt at a beard going; makes him look even younger. "I could never figure out if your ma knew the full story."

"What, like you do? You think he can hide a whole family?"

"He hid it from you."

"Yeah," June says, eyes a little hot. "But I'm his kid. I ain't gonna question it."

Sonny shrugs. "Don't matter much, really. He's dead now. Can't nobody share him anymore."

June tries not to let herself recoil when he says that. He's right. He's always right. Says, "Guess I don't like the thought of having kin out there that I don't know."

"Don't everybody?" Sonny says, and then taps her knee. "C'mon. Titi didn't want you home late. Let's go."

He gets up out of the water. Doesn't wait for June, doesn't wait to see if she follows.

* * *

Sonny's right. June knows this. Doesn't mean she likes it.

Doesn't even mean she can keep it out of her head. Gets home from school the next day, gets the boys a snack and then marches to her mother's room. Goes straight for the closet and pulls the box full of her father's things out from her closet. She has photos of him in her room—the two of them when she was a baby, the three of them at her fourteenth birthday. That smile on both of them, a smile her mother says June has, too.

Her mother's done her best to tuck all the pieces of her father into this box. Barely cried when they got the news, one of the Kings coming by the day after the crash to tell them. She was torn between fury and sorrow, like she couldn't believe that she was still the last to know.

June doesn't know how else they could have found out. Still remembers the way everything had slowed down when the words were said. Remembers how she was sitting at the kitchen table, how she tried to stand up but couldn't lift her feet, suddenly. How her mother stood in the hall for a long moment and neither said anything. She doesn't want to feel that way ever again. Finds she feels similarly, now, looking through her dead father's pictures and clothes and old letters he must have written her mother.

She shouldn't open them, but she does. Tries to match her father's handwriting to his personality, the looping letters written like he had too much energy to get them to fit together. Her mother's are careful, neat. She reads them tell each other _I love you_ over and over and over and doesn't understand how it can be true. Sees her name mentioned, finds letters from before and after she was born and feels like someone's cracked an egg over her head, cold seeping through her nerves.

Reads the names _Darrel Jr._, _Sodapop_, _Ponyboy_. Still wrapping her head around the latter two, tests the names out herself. Says Junior, too, just to see what it sounds like. She reads a letter saying his wife is pregnant again, finds one that says he loves her mother just as much. _Believe me, Faye, I want to be there as badly as you want me there._ Swallows it like it's a lie her mother couldn't see through.

Feels crazy, suddenly. Like she's learned too much, like she knows more than she was ever meant to. Three boys with her blood are living in the city and her mother knew about them. She had proof of this whole other family that's existed longer than June's been alive, and never said anything about it to June. Was this supposed to be a secret? Were his—were his two families going to be kept separated by dumb luck and Tulsa's splitting their citizens up according to what color they were? Her daddy was part Mexican, after all, but not enough that he was stuck in the Southeast like them. Like Sonny. Like all the mixed kids in Brumly and further, besides.

Downstairs, one of the boys calls for her. She swallows, throat feeling full. Tucks almost everything back in that damned box and puts it back in the closet like she wasn't there in the first place, something like a plan fermenting in her heart.

Her auntie's home early today, but her mother's working late again. She needs to leave the house. Looks at her aunt—brittle-looking, tired—and tries to ignore the guilt at the lie she's cooking up as she prepares dinner. Feeds all of them except herself. Isn't quite sure if what she's got in mind requires she have a full stomach.

"Auntie," she says, when the boys have gone to wash up and the dishes are all washed, a plate left on the stove for her mother, "I need to go to the library."

Her aunt blinks at her. She's thinner than she used to be. She started putting weight on once the heat of the summer started to fade, but it's starting slipping from her again. Earns her worried looks from June's mother, even though Celeste is two years older. She stayed on the rez longest out of her siblings, married real young and then lost the first husband in an accident that no one likes to talk about. She married the boy's father a few years after that, had the boys in quick succession. Then she got sick and their daddy left them and now June's momma does her best to take care of all of the, five people in a house that only ever saw her and June on the daily.

She's sick enough that June knows she's taking advantage of it when she says, "I can walk over there, don't worry."

"Are you sure?" she says. She sounds exhausted. _Good_.

"Yeah," she says, "I need to pick up a book for my chemistry report."

"It can't wait for tomorrow?" she asks. "It's late, honey. Maybe I can drive you over in the afternoon."

"I'll be fine," she says, and dries her hands on a dish towel. "Do you need anything while I'm out?" Unlike her mother, who needs to be cajoled, June knows her auntie will give in if she thinks it's a lost cause. She's perfected these interactions, long before Celeste ever moved in.

There's an old envelope burning a hole in her pocket, her father's loopy handwriting doing little to hide the address from prying eyes. June knows this city well even if she sticks to King territory. She's heading somewhere tonight, and there's no stopping her.

Celeste hesitates for a moment longer, then sighs. Nods her head.

"Alright, sweetheart," she says, "you be careful now, alright?"

"I will, Auntie," June says, and slips out the front door this time—like it's nothing. It's nothing. She keeps telling herself that, as she walks down the streets and bus aisles and passed buildings that are almost as rundown as the places on her side of town. It's nothing.

Nothing, like the house whose address matches the one in her daddy's handwriting, fenced and looking worse for wear. The gate ain't even pulled shut. What kind of place is this, she wonders, that they got no problem leaving it like that? The rest of the block ain't much better, after all.

She's going to be fine because she has to be, but when she knocks on the door and a large man—red sideburns, light eyes—opens the door and gives her a funny look, she has no choice but to say, quickly, words nearly slurred, "I'm here for Darrel Curtis. Junior."

Maybe she should have thought more about what she wanted to say, or what should be said, but June being there is like scratching an itch. She just knows she needs to do it. Besides, there's no real way to prepare herself for the shock of seeing him. It's like looking at her dead daddy—if it weren't for the eyes. Those aren't her eyes, too close to green or blue. But it's the same face.

"Can I help you?" Darrel Curtis Jr. asks her, and her breath gets caught in her throat. It smells like chocolate cake, for some reason. June wonders if she's imagining it.

"Maybe," she says, clutching the envelope with its letter and staring at her brother like she's seen a ghost. Wonders what he thinks of her, for a second, and says, "I've got a few questions about our daddy, and I figured you could help," watching closely as his whole expression twists up. Sees herself mirrored in it. Thinks it might even be comforting, to have so much in common already with a stranger.

* * *

When he phoned the next morning from another state,  
saying that, after our dance,  
after my exit, in full view of all the guests,  
the waiters at long tables  
of open bars, she lunged at him, tearing his tux,  
his dress shirt, scratching his chest,  
drawing blood with her nails, demanding a response:  
"Why can't you only love me?"

wasn't he describing me, our drama: our act,  
our scene?

(Elise Paschen, "Voir Dire")


	2. two

In Oklahoma, Wally, here is Josie's father. Something that is going to be nothing, but isn't. (Carter Revard, "In Oklahoma")

* * *

The boys start yelling as soon as she crosses the threshold. If they were yelling at her it would be a different story, but mostly it's the ones who ain't Darrel Jr. that are going at it. June should feel bad about the upheaval. She doesn't. Takes in her surroundings, rather than look at the boys that almost look like her father and the odd one out, with the red hair, watching her like she's some sort of alien. Must be shocking, to have some colored girl show up and claim a dead man as her daddy. She's had a few days to think on it, after all. They've got all of thirty seconds.

"Whadaya mean, he's her dad, too?" one of them says, voice still high like it ain't had time to drop yet.

June looks at him, finds him watching her. Takes a second to size him up—he opens his mouth, to say something, maybe, and she finds that they have the same chin. Isn't quite sure she likes that, frowns at the thought, and then he closes his mouth again and just breathes. The two of them look at each other while the others—the almost blonde one and Darrel Jr.—start some argument up about her daddy and who knew what and _what the fuck are you talking about, you __knew__?_

"Knew _what_," she says, sharp. Feels like her momma, narrowing her eyes at these two boys. Both of them with comically surprised expressions on their faces. She's lingering, still, in their foyer with the redhead, but youngest one is still on the other side of the table while Darrel Jr. and the blond—she wonders which one is named Sodapop and which is Ponyboy, Christ, what was her daddy thinking—are caught between the two rooms. The few things she can see from where she's standing looks…old. Run down. New enough models but like no one's been taking care of it right. Like they need a woman's touch around here.

Maybe she feels a little sick at the reminder that they lost their mother _and_ father. She never thought she'd feel lucky. Almost like being some sort of secret family meant she got to keep her mother. Maybe it could have been the three of them dead, instead of her daddy and his wife and two families shattered. If it had been them three no one would have known the difference, maybe. Or maybe they would have, because her daddy didn't look all that Mexican. Maybe it would have torn these boys' lives apart, too.

None of that matters, though. What matters is these three boys are having a moment and it's June's fault, and she doesn't feel a lick of shame about it. What she feels might be something like outrage, though, looking at—her _brother_, her _oldest_ brother, who's going a little flushed at four pairs of eyes on him.

"Darry?" says the one she thinks is youngest. He's the one who had that murder charge, if she's remembering right. Ponyboy. That's the one.

Darrel—Darry takes a deep breath. It looks like he's been carrying the whole weight of the world on his shoulders and ain't had the time to put it down. Or found the right person to hand it off to. It's a familiar feeling, and for a second, June feels something like kinship for him. He says, "Two-Bit, any chance you could scram?"

The redhead offers him a salute. He's still watching June. She bristles.

"Catch you later, Curtises," he says, then flinches. "Lemme know if, uh. Y'all need anything." He bounds out of the house like there's something hot on his heels. The screen door slams shut, and when June moves her gaze back to Darry he has his eyes closed. Breathing real deeply. He needs a break, she can tell, and she ain't been here longer than fifteen minutes, if that. It's obvious.

What if she didn't have her momma, in the aftermath of her father's death? Or what if she'd been the one to have to take care of a younger sibling or two, all by herself? Nothing compares to that, not even her watching over the boys when their mothers are at work trying to make enough to take care of them all. How is this—this boy, her brother, who looks barely old enough to have a full-time job, no matter how big he is across the shoulders, capable of playing house with two teenagers?

What is it that he knows, that the three of them don't?

The house is quiet. It smells like chocolate cake, stronger inside than outside, rich and sweet like June hasn't had in ages. For too long they just look at each other, all of them, the youngest in the kitchen to the blond in the doorway and then all their eyes on Darry, with _his_ on her like they really know each other. June takes a deep breath, and it seems too loud.

Darry says, "What's your name?" and she tilts her head.

"June," she says. She glances at the boy standing closest to them. His eyebrows are pulled together, mouth a frown she's seen on her own face. Eyes like her daddy's, and it's like a punch to the gut. Same eyes as _her_.

"We should sit down," Darry says, and both she and the boy go, "_No_." Sharp. A little painful, the way their voices sound together. June wants to just _look_, at this house and these boys and anything they have hidden away in here. Wants to understand what makes them similar and horribly different all at once, once to see the pieces of herself that she can see reflected in each of them. The chin, the eyes, the same smile. All these remnants of her daddy that she didn't think she'd find again unless it was in a mirror, but in reality have been hiding across the city. A secret hiding from her. From all of them.

The blond says, "Who said we had the same daddy?"

"He did," she says, and pulls the carefully folded letter from her pocket. Her father wrote it. She traced over his handwriting, carefully, lovingly. She writes almost the same, except she doesn't make the letters quite as big. There's a little more control there, maybe because she takes after her momma or because her momma's the one who taught her in the first place. Maybe her daddy taught his boys. Maybe their mother got to do that, too.

The youngest brother has come closer, hovering at the blond's shoulder, and they both zero in on that letter like it holds all the secrets to the universe, instead of just a few about her daddy and her momma, both. There's something guarded and suspicious on their faces, less so on Darry, though it's clear that they're all deeply uncomfortable. June's willing to bet money on her getting a different welcome if she didn't look as much like her momma as she does. Part of her smarts at the reminder that these boys, with their light eyes and almost-blond hair, can get away with things she can't even imagine. It hardly seems fair.

"What's that?" says the younger one, and June barely manages to contain her eyeroll.

"A letter," she drawls, lifts her chin when he scowls.

"What's it _say_?" he demands.

She turns back to Darry. Looks at him, hard. She says, instead of answering, "You think I'm telling the truth?"

His jaw clenches. "Don't matter. I believe you."

* * *

June's half-convinced these boys ain't real. How can anyone go so long, not knowing at least a little about what her daddy was getting up to? The youngest one, Ponyboy, seemed most shell-shocked, kept interrupting to ask questions that she didn't have time for or already knew the answers to.

Here's the truth: Darrel Curtis Sr. was born in Dallas to an Irish Mexican and a green-eyed girl who was part Mexican, too. Most folks just couldn't tell. Granddaddy Miguel brought up his only child in Dallas, no problem, but at eighteen he was real restless. Wanted to see something outside of the town he'd spent his whole life in. He decided to pack up everything he thought he'd need and kissed his momma goodbye and hitchhiked his way to Tulsa. He didn't know better than to settle in Brumly, where the sound of Spanish was familiar even if they all took him for a white man for a long while.

Eighteen and on his own for the first time. No one to cook him beans or darn his laundry. This was war-time, and he almost enlisted after a month or two in this new place, 'til one of his neighbors—Martin Baca, Mexican by way of Texas, just like him—told him the war plant he worked for was hiring, and off he went to join the cause instead of die for it. Baca ended up a friend of his, and it was through him that the men that would become the River Kings would form over the coming months.

The specifics ain't too familiar to June. Hell, her daddy never sat her down and said the River Kings were a thing he had a hand in at all. That's stuff she's picked up by herself, watching Sonny and sitting quiet while conversations between her mother and father unraveled. Fact of the matter is, her daddy and his new Oklahoman friends didn't fare too well after all the boys came back from war, even the Mexicans who had actually served. It started off as something like protection. All of them looking out for each other, since it was clear the white boys that were coming back had chips on their shoulders. That's all it was for a little while.

But the colored folks on the East side got by even worse than the white ones. And there were a few different ways to make money, back in the fifties, before June was born and after. Maybe her daddy didn't have to do a lot of dirty work, not with so many people who respected him and could do it, too. He was a tough man. He was a natural leader. Maybe he used to help organize drop-offs and pick-ups and all sorts of things that his men would end up doing for the rest of the River Kings. He knew a guy or two back home in Texas. They knew a few further South. That must have been how it started, her daddy knowing all the right people.

They set up good businesses and worked with other Mexicans in the city and, later, most colored folks who'd come by. That's why the Kings take almost anyone who comes to them. They don't always get along with the Tiber Street Tigers over on the Northside, but it's a better alliance than whatever they've got going on with Brumly. The roofing job he did semi-legitimately was half a cover, half-not. Brought in more money than it should have. Not everyone who worked there was a King, but the ones who were? They made off okay.

If June thinks about it, that makes sense. Too much. Of course that job was enough for her daddy to take care of two families. None of this should be surprising. How could she be so stupid? At least she had an idea. At least she didn't look half as horrified, like the youngest brother, the sudden realization that his daddy wasn't quite who he remembered him to be.

The blond one, Sodapop, he seemed a little more resigned. Like enough of what was being said wasn't new, so the rest of it made enough sense to be accepted. June keeps trying to remember Darry's face. If she's seen it before, and not just on her daddy. Maybe he got taken along, too, and not the way she was, waiting in the car. Maybe he knows the Kings. Maybe they know him right back.

Darry drives her home; doesn't even let her argue, reminds her so much of her momma she shuts right up and listens. The other boys watch her. Suspicious. A little angry, maybe. She feels hysterical. Of all things to bring up. Of all things to be—a girl, and colored, and the daughter of a father dead near a year. She can't even blame them for it. Here she comes, wanting answers like they're going to have them. How stupid. She set herself up for failure.

She's not sure how she's supposed to talk to any of them. But here she is, stuck in a car with an older brother. They don't say anything the whole ride. It leaves June on edge but that ain't really new, not really. She feels safe, though. Like trusting this brother is instinctual. It has to be because it's nearly the same face she knew her whole life, but something tells her it's deeper than that. More significant. Because they're blood, because they know each other, somehow, underneath it all.

When they pull up in front of the house he finally speaks. Says, "It's prob'ly best if you don't come around."

June breathes. It's loud in the silence of the cab. She says, "Did you know?"

"Not about you," he says, like it makes it better. She nods, mostly to herself. When she gets out of the car, she doesn't say goodbye.

* * *

Just because she tries to put those boys out of her head don't mean she succeeds. She thinks of that woman's eyes in her father's face, Darry like something out of a nightmare. She wakes up to her aunt's coughing and can't get back to sleep, dreaming of the accident like she was in the backseat. If Darry knew about her mother, chances are _his_ mother did too. June ain't feeling charitable. Part of her doesn't want the truth. Tries to imagine being in love with someone and can't even do that—she doesn't have the heart to consider sharing a man with some other woman.

She wants to be angry with her mother, but it curdles. Makes her feel brittle, lower than dirt. One wrong touch and she'll turn into dust, and life's hard enough without her moping around, hoping to be called out on it, wanting to be ignored. Her grades were hell the last year, and they aren't looking much better now. Her momma'll get on her case soon enough, but not even that impending lecture is enough to get herself in gear.

"You wanna live like this forever?" her momma's said. Like this is something June's used to. Like she wasn't living just fine, seeing her daddy once a week and all the bills paid for without her momma having to stress, all of it thanks to the Kings. June's said as much. It usually gets her smacked, rightly so, she thinks, her mother going on about her lack of respect and her absolute wildness since her daddy died.

June doesn't think she's all that much wild. She runs around with Sonny more than anything, might head to a girl's birthday party or quinceañera or baby shower, otherwise. Some of the girls got older sisters, and some of them just get married young. Her momma don't much like those friends, but it's who June's got, not that she's ever been too good with girl friends. Maybe she was meant for brothers. Maybe that's something she should hold against her father.

If she's wild it's because of him, after all. Who runs off from everything he knows just for a taste of something new? Not June. Even if she wanted otherwise, she'll probably live and die in Oklahoma. She knows what girls like her are called. Knows there's double to words to throw at her, Mexican and Indian and _girl_ all in one. She looks in the mirror and sees her daddy and her momma and feels guilty, wondering if she could have looked like anyone else. This is who she is, even if her momma wants to pretend otherwise. She should know better, with a dead King brother and a dead King man. No one gets a pass on this side of town. June ain't about to be the exception.

It's near Halloween when Sonny deigns visit her again. He's driven her home from class a few times, slipped her a few bills here and there when it seemed like she needed them. Had her stand pretty outside Alcaraz's place on the off-chance a squad car came squealing down the street, a spliff between her fingers, the whole afternoon hazy. She'll take those nights over anything else, probably. She ain't had too many options, really.

"I'm heading to Buck's," he tells her, and she raises an eyebrow, arms wet up to her elbows and busy scrubbing at a casserole disk that ain't been set to soak long enough.

"That's Shepard territory," she says. She doesn't know the Shepards personally, but she's heard the rumors. Tim Shepard, nineteen now and that scar at least a year old, maybe two. All his uncles dead and his daddy too, his ma some pretty drunkard. At least she's not on smack, like Sonny's momma. June's curious, though. Wants to know what kind of man he's got to be, to have a grip on his gang that young. They might be the newcomers, compared to the Kings and the Boys and the Tigers, but they make good money jacking cars and selling grass and other shit to rich white kids, from what Sonny's told her.

They're decent fighters, too. A few boys from her side of town might've gotten roughed up a time or two—they probably deserved it, too. June's not sure what Sonny's getting at.

"What about it?" he asks her, leaning real heavy in the doorway. His jacket needs to be treated; it looks dull, and the yellow light of the kitchen isn't a good enough excuse.

"You looking for a real fight, then?"

"Don't worry about me," he says, and comes into the kitchen, throws his jacket over a chair. "You coming with?"

"I got class tomorrow."

"So skip," he says, taking the soapy plate she hands over and rinsing it. The casserole dish gets put aside. She can't remember the last time she had help with the dishes.

She purses her mouth. "What're you up to?"

"Jax cleared it. Deal with the Shepards."

"He gonna be there, too?"

"Alcaraz," he says. "Not sure he won't fuck it up somehow, though. I might need a ride home."

June fixes him with an unimpressed glare. "That why you're here? I ain't got a license."

"Don't mean you ain't a good driver," he says, and steps back as she gets back to the casserole dish. With a little elbow grease, she can probably get it clean the rest of the way. She scratches at a food particle with her fingernail. Sniffs a little.

"When d'you plan on getting out of there?"

He shrugs. "Can't say."

June takes a breath. Sonny watches her.

"I'm offering you a cut."

"Jax gonna jump me in, or is he pretending you ain't dragging me around halfa Tulsa?"

"You don't know no details," Sonny says, shrugging in a way that seems practice. "Cops get to you, you're just some dumb girl running around with Kings. They won't treat you too bad."

"I ain't some Westside _gringa_," she says, the word awkward in her mouth, "they'd track you down real quick."

"I ain't a snitch," he says, "why you worried? You been running around with me forever."

"Only since they jumped you in," she says, and puts the dish down. Dries her hands, looks over her cousin like he's hiding something. "How much?"

"Ten," he says, holding her gaze. "Fifteen, even."

That's…more than she was expecting. "You just want me to drive you back?"

"Might not even need it," he says with a shrug, "but you know Alcaraz. Better safe than sorry, eh?"

"Sure," she says, and crosses her arms. "Don't tell me you gotta leave now."

"Put the kids to bed, Blue," he says, and slings his jacket over his shoulder, "we got places to be."

She's never been to Buck's before. She knows it's Shepard territory, sure, but she sticks to her side of town with no issue. The place is loud and busy, even for a Thursday, and before she can say anything about it Sonny and Alcaraz are getting out of the car. The latter hadn't even had the audacity to leer at June like he usually did, just waited for her to climb into the back seat when Sonny pulled up in front of his decrepit home. June's been there too often, which is to say, just once is too much. It's an ugly old building, but Alcaraz has been running with the Kings something like five years now. Jax trusts him for a reason. If he didn't, he wouldn't be here, shoulders thrown back as he saunters up to Buck's.

"Hey," she hisses, still half in the car, and Sonny turns to look at her. "Am I supposed to just wait out here, or what?"

He shrugs. Turns back towards the building as Alcaraz disappears inside, says, "Up to you," and then follows after him. June's going to kill him.

She doesn't _want_ to go inside. She's heard the stories. There's a reason, right, that Sonny thinks he'll need her to drive him home. The Shepards push more than just weed, after all, and she's willing to bet that the reason Shepard's meeting here is so that he can make a quick buck round the clock.

Staying outside ain't much of an option. June settles into the driver's seat anyway, though, sighs when she doesn't find the keys in the ignition. How does Sonny plan to get home if he loses them? She crosses her arms, slouches in the seat and decides to people-watch. Sees girls in tiny skirts despite the weather and men with their arms draped over them. She picks at her linen jax, considers her nail polish, and jumps when someone knocks on the window.

She looks up and loses interest real fast—she doesn't know the guy, nor does she want to. He's got his blond hair slicked back, a spray of freckles over his face. He leers at her, says, "You waiting 'round for someone, honey?"

She rolls her eyes. Doesn't bother answering, turning her gaze towards the building. A couple of his friends are hooting a few feet away.

"You oughta come on inside," he drawls, "I can show you a good time."

"No thanks," she says, still not looking at him.

"C'mon now, honey," he says. She watches him from the corner of her eye. "Lemme treat you right."

"Get _lost_," she says, harsh now, and his expression screws up.

"Them Spic bitches is awful uppity, lately," one of the men behind him says, and she inhales, sharp.

"Nah, she don't look greasy enough for that," another laughs, "she's prob'ly up from Osage."

Her nails dig into her palm. It feels like do or die; either the guy'll lose interest and leave her alone, or else he'll try and drag her out of the car. Wouldn't be the first time someone tried to pull on her metaphorical pigtails. Don't mean he's not a threat though, just that it's the first time she ain't had Sonny or some girl friend next to her to help deflect the attention. That's just men, she thinks. At least the ones who watch like she's available for consumption.

He gives her one last, nasty look before pushing off from the car. She tries to ignore their voices but it's hard. It should be louder, with the amount of people she's watched show up, to say nothing of the crowd when Sonny first walked in. _She_ feels watched now, though. Doesn't matter that she saw for herself that the blond and his buddies disappeared inside. Sitting outside on her lonesome, even within the relative safety of the car, don't feel like a good idea anymore.

Buck's doesn't either though. That doesn't stop her from heading inside regardless.

She tries to rationalize it to herself. Those guys could come back, or someone else could some by, and either way they might not like her telling them anything that sounds vaguely like no. Inside of Buck's, there are other people who—probably won't step in, but June would rather not be alone if someone tries anything. Her hands are still curled into fists.

It's loud inside, shitty country music blasting. It's too easy to get inside, even if June looks her age. The lighting ain't good, everything with a sort of blue tinge that makes June feel like she's underwater. It's nothing like the pool, though, none of that calmness spreading through her limbs. It's hot, feels crowded, and June's not sure if they let colored folks sit at the bar.

"Hey there, honey," someone says, leaning against her heavy. They smell like a distillery. "You wanna dance?"

"Buy me a drink first," she says, like an instinct, even if she'd rather get a hit off someone's blunt. It can't be that hard to find one of Shepard's crew around here, but soon enough she's got a drink in her hand, something dark-colored and bitter on her tongue. She's not sure how long she's been waiting for Sonny. Somewhere between an hour and two, probably. She keeps her back to the bar, the man talking to her clearly too old for half the girls here. He's got her hand on her thigh, lets it creep up a little with every fifteen-minute increment that passes.

The bar gets rowdier. She's pretty sure there's probably a room upstairs, or maybe out back, where this meeting is probably going on, but even if June's dumb enough to walk into Buck's by herself, she ain't dumb enough to go exploring. She's tempted though, it's true; she doesn't like this man's hand on her, but he bought her a drink. Pretty sure she has to deal with it, at least until Sonny comes out.

It's after midnight when she sees Tim Shepard. He moves like he's on a mission, a long, lean line that cuts through the crowd with now issue. The man who bought her a drink is whispering in her ear, and the glass in her grip is mostly water with the barest sliver of ice, now. Shepard comes close to the bar, says something to the bartender, and then leans against it on an elbow. His eyes sweep over the crowd, calculating, and when they skim over June they double back. She watches, fascinated, as his face screws up in confusion at the exact same moment the man next to her grabs her ass.

She can't help it—she jerks away. Pulls back when he tries to grab her shoulder, gritting her teeth when he yanks her close to him, his breath in her face absolutely rank.

"Hey now," he snaps, "I bought you a drink, sweetheart, and I ain't even get that dance from you."

"I—" A drink is slammed down to the counter, whatever liquor was in it leaving just a trace in the glass. She's not alone in looking up, suddenly, even the creep with the grip on her pausing.

Shepard's a little scary-looking from this angle. Maybe it's the low light, or the scar down his face. Either way, he don't look too amused.

"How's it going, Frank?" he says. He eyes—blue, bright, calculating—aren't friendly, even if it's clear he recognizes this guy. His grip on her arm loosens.

"Tim," Frank says. He doesn't sound half as tough as he did a second before. "She one'a yours?"

"Something like that," he says, "didn't know you was chasing after little kids these days."

"She—"

"How old are you, kid?" When he looks at her she freezes. She takes it as her cue, though, as Frank starts sputtering something about not knowing any better, Tim's gaze flitting back to him long enough that she can bolt.

She doesn't get far, though, not five feet outside building before someone's grabbing at her again. She throws her elbow back on instinct, doesn't make contact, and half-spins around to find Tim watching her like he might be impressed.

"How old _are_ you?" he says again. He's got one hand on her wrist. Grip loose. If she really wanted to, she could pull away.

"Old enough," she snaps. Grits her teeth, jaw tight with unease. She's tired of men.

"Don't think so," he says. "You're awful far from King territory, ain't you, baby Curtis?"

She stiffens. A cold feeling seeps down her spine, like someone cracked an egg over her head. "That's not my name."

"Don't mean you ain't a Curtis," he says, "hell, you look like one." When he grins she feels _seen_. "Don't worry. Your kid brother's got a big mouth, 's all. Mine ain't much better."

She glares at him. He laughs.

"I hope you ain't here by yourself," he says, "last I saw, a few of your boys were on their way out."

As if on cue, Sonny—in the driver's seat again, Alcaraz nowhere to be found—pulls up to them with the window rolled down. His eyebrows pull together, dark eyes worried.

"This one yours?" Tim drawls. Sounds so much like that creep she can't help but shiver. He stands like someone who's got the city in his hands, which is awful bold of him. Worse, June chafes at the thought of just being some piece of property, doesn't matter if she and Sonny are blood.

And she ain't a Curtis, either.

"Yeah," he says, and just the tone of his voice suggests she's about to get a lecture on the drive home. She scowls.

"I don't belong to nobody," she snaps, and fails to not stomp over to the passenger seat. Tim's still smirking, even after she climbs into the car.

"Pleasure doing business, Thunder," he says, "might wanna leave the kids at home next time, vale?"

"Likewise," Sonny says, voice clipped. It feels like June's fists have been clenched the whole night.

Sonny doesn't try to say anything until they're driving off, and June cuts him off before he can get two full syllables out.

"I'm not in the mood," she says, and crosses her arms, slouches low in her seat. "Where's Alcaraz?"

"Don't worry about it," he says, in a tone that books no argument.

"D'you get the deal?"

"It ain't your business," he says to her. Hesitates. "You're lucky it was just Tim talking to you."

"Sure," she says. Feels a little hollow at the memory of Frank's hands on her, presses her finger tips to the indentations her nails have left. She wonders if she broke the skin.

* * *

A month after their disastrous first meeting, her older brother shows up outside of her house.

It's not Darry. He couldn't have been much clearer about not wanting June around if he'd said so.

Sodapop, she thinks, looks the most like Mrs. Curtis. The name still leaves a sour taste on her tongue, even if she's only thinking it. He looks out of place, here and even in that old house her daddy was raising him in. Like nothing should be able to touch him, golden as he looks. June resents it on principle.

She's only just walking home from school, would've assumed the old car was some neighbor's, except for how he climbed out of it as she approached. Her fingers curl around the strap of her bag, heavy with books for once. She eyes him suspiciously.

"Why're you here?"

He gives her a beseeching look. "Hey. June."

She rolls her eyes. Says, plain, in that tone she uses on the boys when they pretend she ain't got some sort of authority over them, "Whadaya want?"

He flinches. Comes around the car so that they're standing barely two feet from each other. He smells like gasoline and motor oil, and when she looks at his hands she can see they're stained. He says, "I know what Darry told you," and she flinches.

She tries to cover it up. Scowl, like she might if this were a stranger and not someone she's been unknowingly tied to her whole life. Playing pretend comes easier. She's had a lot of practice lately.

"And?" she says, cocking a hip. Her bag digs into her shoulder. Her face feels hot; she's thankful, for once in her life, that she's too dark for it to show.

"He shouldn'ta said that," Soda says. There's something—pleading, almost, about his expression. Like he really _does_ feel bad. "You didn't…'s'not fair."

"What's not fair?" June says, slowly, trying to figure it out for herself. She's had the same thought, sure, but mostly about her daddy being dead. She's not quite sure that's what he's getting at.

"You didn't know," he says, like it's obvious, "and we didn't, neither. Least us three, we got each other. What about you?"

Her scowl's more genuine now. "What, so you came over to remind me?"

"He was wrong," Soda says, more firmly now. "'S'not his fault. He don't know any better."

"If he can't figure out how to talk to his sister," she says, even though the word feels _and_ sounds like a lie, "then how's he taking care of two brothers, hm?"

Soda flinches. "Listen. I didn't come see you to fight."

"You came to _see_ me?"

"Yeah," he says.

There's a brutally honest look to him. Makes her feel suspicious, and with good reason. She's yet to meet someone who ain't out for something from her. Her daddy wanted her unconditional love, after all, and look at where it's left her. Three brothers she never knew and his body long-cold. It's a joke, is what it is.

He takes a peak at her bag. For whatever reason, she clutches it closer to her body. He offers her a sad smile. "You coming from school?"

"Yeah."

"Good," he says, and rubs the back of his neck. "Darry and Pony were always better at it than me. I been working, mostly, since—since the accident." The glimmer of good-naturedness fades.

June shrugs. Glances towards the house, empty still, the boys not home for another hour, her auntie at the hospital today. Her mother would probably invite this boy in. Instead, she offers, "I ain't doing too hot, really."

"No?" he asks, and looks a little more interested. She wonders if it was a fight, him working instead of school—at least, that's what she's assuming he means. Maybe he does night school. She knows plenty of boys who've done that, mostly Kings, but still. That counts for something.

She shakes her head. They look at each other for a long moment, and then he takes a deep breath, like he's just convinced himself of something.

"Listen," he says, "how 'bout I buy you a burger, or something? I don't know a thing about you. I should."

"You just met me," she says, "ain't even know I existed, a month ago."

"Naw," he says, "but you were an interesting birthday surprise, lemme tell you." When she blinks he shakes his head, laughs a little. Tells her, "You showed up on my birthday. Seventeenth."

"Oh," she says. That explains the chocolate cake, probably. Sometimes she wakes up still smelling it. "Sorry."

He shakes his head. "Make it up to me today," he says. "I wanna know who you are."

"I'm June," she says, and this time when he grins it feels genuine. Makes her think of her daddy. _Their_ father, really.

"Come on," he says, straightening up from his slouch. He opens the passenger door for her. "'S on me."

June hesitates for a second. In the end, she goes with him.

They end up at a joint not too far from Hale. The waitress is a girl a year ahead of June and does a double take when Soda walks in behind her. June ain't sure if it's because he's white or good-looking. There aren't more then three people in the building, a couple clearly on a date and some older man sitting at the counter, his beard powder white. The two of them sit in silence for a long moment.

"Burgers are good," June says, for lack of anything better to say, and Soda nods. Too eager. She glances at the menu.

"Right," he says, and they say nothing until they order their food. She orders a milkshake and he nods again, like he approves. She's not quite sure what to make of it. Finally, after what can't be more than a minute or two but feels as excruciating as an hour, Soda starts. "So you're our sister?"

"Yup," she says, and leans back against the seat. She learned the move from Sonny. The carelessness, the sheer confidence in her own movements—that's all Sonny. Only brother she's had in this life. She can't say she really needs another. "You read the letter."

"Yeah," Soda says, and plays with the salt shaker a little bit. Spills some, and, before June can reach out to do the same, tosses a bit more over his shoulder. Grins, sheepish, when she just stares. "My—Dad used to do that. Bad luck, he said. Guess I still believe it."

"Me too," she says, voice a little rough, and then clears her throat. "I mean. He did that with us, too."

Soda nods. Says, "What's your momma like?" and she flinches. He doesn't back down, though. Eyes just like—just like their father.

She scratches at the tabletop. Her nails need to be filed. She says, "She works a lot."

"What's she do?"

"She's a nurse," she says, slowly. "Mercy. Pulls a lot of doubles."

He nods. Less like he's trying to show he's eager for her to continue, and more like things are starting to make sense. She clenches her jaw. This conversation isn't going well, and Soda has to know it.

"Darry too. Roofing, like. Dad." He holds her gaze. She knows what he's getting at.

Their waitress brings out her milkshake. She doesn't look at June, though, smiles sweetly at Soda and asks if they need anything while they wait.

"We're fine, thanks," he says, oddly short, and both June and the waitress look to each other. June shrugs, bites the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. She's sure there'll be some great rumor about her come Monday.

Before he can continue his train of thought, June says, curling her fingers around her glass, "Where do _you_ work?"

"Gas station," he says, still short, and then seems to remember himself. He takes the paper wrapper she's discarded, folds up into tiny squares and then stretches it out. She takes a long sip. Finally, he speaks.

"You should spend Thanksgiving with us," Soda says, and June can't help it. She laughs.

"You asking an Indian girl over for dinner," she says after she finally stops, Soda looking hurt. Wonders if she looks the same, turning the brown eyes they both got from their daddy on whoever it is she's trying to convince to help her out.

Soda, at least, looks contrite. "Just think it'd be nice," he says, "for us to get to know you."

She tilts her head. "Why?"

"You're our sister," he says. She purses her lips.

"I'm half," she says, matter-of-fact. Watches his shoulders go tight. "We ain't grown up together, Soda."

"We should make up for it," he says, but then their burgers are ready, and he lets that subject drop, too.

Afterwards, they run into Sonny.

They haven't even finished climbing into the car—a Dodge, she thinks, but she's not too good with car models. Soda's in the middle of lighting a cigarette, and June's wishing she had something a little stronger. He asked her about her momma's family, who they live with, what her friends do. She talked around the Kings, and he knows it. Sonny showing up makes it all the more obvious.

"Hey," June says when he comes up to them in the parking lot, hand lifted in greeting and the window rolled down for him. She blinks when Sonny curls his fingers over hers, his expression hard. Behind him, Chino Sanchez and Ozzie Losa watch with some interest, elbows on the roof of Sonny's car. No doubt he'll tell them off about it the second he turns back and catches them.

"Who's this?" he says, staring Soda down. She glances at him, sees an equally tough expression on his face. She's not sure what exactly is happening, but she's not a fan of it.

"Why you worried?" she says, slowly, then lets her voice drop into a drawl. She glances towards Chino and Ozzie. "You gonna finally let Alcaraz take me out?"

He shifts his stare-down to her, eyebrows scrunched. He doesn't look like he's in the mood for her usual games.

"Soda, this is my cousin, Sonny," she says finally, when it feels like they might actually start mouthing off, and tries to get her hand out of Sonny's grip with little success. "Sonny, this is…Soda Curtis."

His expression immediately transforms, less protective now and more surprised. He drops her hand and says, after a moment of looking like he's trying to remember how to speak, "Soda, huh?"

"Yup," Soda says. He's sitting in a way that to anyone from the Westside would think was natural, slouched like any hood from around downtown. "My folks were real creative."

"Yeah," Sonny says. "Heard about that."

Soda straightens a little. When he looks at Sonny it don't seem half as hostile anymore, even if there's an emotion there that June can't place. "That so?"

Sonny glances at her. Says, "Knew your daddy like he was blood," and June's about to have a conniption. "Helped mine out, back when he was new in town."

"Yeah?" Soda swallows. He nods a little, looks at his hands, clenched around the steering wheel. She cradles hers to her chest.

Sonny nods right back. Puts his elbow over the still open window, leans in close. He says, "Do me a favor, Curtis. Try not to head any further East than here, yeah? Brumly territory. They wasn't a huge fan of your daddy."

June's going to kill him. She means it this time.

"Right," Soda says. His voice goes funny, a little like Sonny's does. It should be _funny,_ that they have that in common. Part of her is even glad it's not because of her this time, the memory of Tim in blue light still something between a relief and cold comfort.

Sonny jerks his head a little, says, "See you 'round," and keeps his eyes on her even as he takes a step backward. She turns her head away. Wonders if he gets it, but doubts it in the same thought.

Soda's not meant for silences, though. She barely knows him, and it's obvious.

"Darry's clean," he says, the diner still clear in the side mirror, "even if he's working for. For."

"The River Kings," she finishes for him. "It all goes back to them. Like everything this side of town."

"Darry's _clean_," Soda says, insistent. "He couldn't—the State wouldn't let him take care of us, if he wasn't."

"That's 'cause—" _you're white_, she almost says. Wants to and doesn't want to. Says, instead, "'S a real business, ain't it? Daddy used to do it, too."

"Yeah," he says. Maybe he wishes he did something different, though. June will admit it if he asks: it's not like she feels the same.

* * *

The night before Uncle Carter got shot dead  
Trying to hijack a load of bootleg whisky,  
He dressed fit to kill, put on his lilac hairoil  
And leaned down to the mirror in our living room  
To comb the hair back over his bald spot, humming,  
"Corinne, Corin-ne, where have you been so long?"  
I don't know if "Corinne" tipped the other bunch off,  
But I hope he made it with her before they killed him.

(Carter Revard, "Support Your Local Police Dog")


	3. three

Our house wasn't big. Maybe that is why I can remember it so well. (Naomi Martinez Littlebear, "Real House")

* * *

November means the boys start to settle down. Not just the cousins that June lives with—Sonny starts coming by more often, ain't tangled up with King business now that the cold sends more men inside, whether that's the pen or their momma's couches. He shows up with groceries, with toys, new clothes for June or her momma or their aunt.

June can see on her mother's face that she hates it. Clearly she wants to refuse the gifts, but there's no good reason not to, and they appreciate it, besides. She cooks dinners for all six of them, bites her tongue when Celeste tuts over Sonny being too skinny. Won't kick Sonny out though, even if it's clear she ain't fond of the fact that he's running with the Kings now. He's hit another growth spurt, maybe an inch from hitting six-foot now, and he uses it to his advantage just fine, it seems like.

"Sonny, I swear to—" June can't even finish the threat, he swings her 'round so fast, having yanked her away from where she was washing dishes. She doesn't let go of the pan she's holding, spills water all over the kitchen instead. "For the love of—"

"Don't cuss," her mother says, a rare off day that has her sleeping in like she never does. She looks sleep-soft, still, dark hair tangled around her shoulders, but she smiles, unthinkingly, when she sees Sonny. Like sleep's made her forget the life they're all living.

June tries not to scowl, says, "Tell him not to make a mess, then."

"I ain't the one who spilled all this water," he says, smiles his most charming grin at her mother, "I'll clean it up, titi."

June takes a deep breath, goes back to her chores while her mother tries not to laugh. Moments like these are rare, and not just because her momma is working all the time. It's a combination of things, it always is, but it's been a long time since she last saw her like this, soft in the early afternoon light. They're deep into fall already, so the light makes it feel like it's later, but there's a genuinely rested look around her mother's eyes that hasn't been there since before her daddy died.

Thinking of him brings a new sting, one different from the ache of mourning all those months ago. She scrubs at the dishes from lunch and imagines his wife doing the same after dinner with all her boys—four of them, including her daddy. How did _she_ feel about the Kings? Did she know about June? About her mother? June listens to Sonny charm her mother and knows, deep down, that she's been hiding all sorts of truths from her, the kind that June was never meant to find out. She tries to ignore it, tries to let it slip from her like water down her back, but it settles like a knot in her belly instead.

She makes a plate for her mother, sets a cup of coffee down after for her and for Sonny. He drinks his in three gulps, tugs on her hair as he waltzes back out to his car, promising to be back soon. June stands in the middle of the kitchen blinking, trying to make sense of her sudden sea-legs, how out of place she feels in her own home.

"Sit down, baby," her momma says, drinking her coffee—no milk, just a spoonful of sugar. Her daddy liked it milky, sweet like a candy melting on June's tongue when she'd steal a sip. She sees her mother sitting there, alone and tired after however many days of working morning 'til night, and sees her father, too, like someone's put film over her eyes. Can see her daddy sitting there like he never left, the expression on his face when he looks at her mother a perfect replication of what he looked like in real life. Like he could stay here forever and have no complaints. Like that wife was an obligation and not someone he had to have loved, to have created that home June lingered in derisively, as if she had a leg to stand on.

June says, her voice trembling despite herself, "You knew."

Her momma blinks at her. Looks genuinely confused, so much so that she wants to take it back and crawl into her lap like she's five again and not ten years older. She asks, "What d'you mean, sweetheart?" and June can feel her heart break.

"You knew about them boys, didn't you," she says, and sees something like shock flicker across her mother's face for a split second before it disappears again, a cool mask coming down instead. June, recognizing it from the arguments she used to have with her daddy, feels a cold fury spread down her spine.

"What're you talking about?" her mother says, but her voice is too flat, too careful.

June can't help herself, hasn't ever been good at keeping a calm head. That's more her mother's habit. Maybe she's more Curtis than she cares to admit. "I ain't stupid," she says, knows her tone is going to get her slapped real good if she don't cut it, quick, but she can't bring herself to, "they was in the papers. I saw it."

Her mother takes a deep breath. June doesn't let her get a word in.

"I saw their picture," she says, "they look like him. Like the wife, too. She know about us?"

A muscle in her mother's cheek jumps. "What did you do."

"D'you think I'd never find out?" June demands. "I used to think it was normal, daddy coming and going as he pleased—"

"Watch your mouth," her momma says, eyes big and shiny, "you don't talk about your father like that—"

"What's it called when a man has two families," June says, "I ain't heard of that before, you know, and it seems like his sons ain't either."

Her mother jerks back like she's smacked her. Her voice is scary-soft when she speaks, and June's cheek smarts just at the thought. "What d'you know about them boys?"

"What do _you_ know," June says back, scowls. She's still standing in the middle of the kitchen, her mother's food and coffee forgotten already. She squares her shoulders, says, "I went to see them," and watches her mother go ashen.

"When?"

"Few weeks ago," she says. Looks at her nails—filed round, nicer nailbeds than her girl friends'. She curls her hands into fists like an afterthought. "You never told me about them."

"They don't have nothing to do with us," her mother says. Her mouth is set in a line, square eyebrows pulled together. She looks younger, suddenly. Still tired, still living with the weight of the world on her shoulders, but young. Too young to have to carry the responsibility of a daughter and dying sister and growing nephews all by herself.

June hates her, fiercely, and it burns hot for a long minute while they just look at each other. She wonders if it shows on her face.

"Maybe not with _you_," June says, and wonders if it hurts to hear it, "but they sure do have a lot to do with me. They're my brothers."

"No," her mother says, sharp, "they're not. You telling me you went to see them and they told you to stay?" When June says nothing, she continues, voice louder, angrier, "You think they want some Indian girl sharing their blood? What were you _thinking_?"

"They didn't say _nothing_ like that," June snaps, "Christ, what, like any of us knew the truth? All's you said was daddy married someone else and fell outta love, but you _lied_ to me, they got three boys—"

"You're fifteen years old, you think you're grown enough to hear the truth?"

"He's dead!" June can't help it, the way it rushes out of her, her voice loud and frantic, "Nothing I know about him is true, I might as well not have a daddy at all!" Her mother starts to say something but she cuts her off, says, "You lied to me. You both did. I don't know nothing 'bout him, all's I know is he's from Texas and not me or them boys knew he had two _fucking_ families hiding from one another."

She's breathing loudly. Her mother's face is carefully blank.

When she speaks, June shivers. "You want the truth, June?"

"I don't want no lies."

"Fine," her mother says. Her voice is colder than June's ever heard it, "Your daddy was half-Mexican and named after his Anglo side." She takes a deep breath, like the words sting, too. "He came up and avoided the war and he married a nice Oklahoma girl. He had three babies by her and one of them is younger than you. He lived and died with that woman."

"What about you?" June says. Wonders if that blonde woman, pretty, the mother of her brothers, dead as her father, had any idea what lingered like a shadow in the same city. Perhaps she's doomed to that fate, too. She's spent long enough doing it without even knowing.

"Your daddy wasn't good at keeping secrets." Her mother looks like she's sucking on a lemon, mouth pursed, fingers folded over one another like if she doesn't keep them to herself she might smack June.

She'd deserve it, she thinks, not that it stops her from saying, "He kept them from me."

"You're a child," her mother says, and it doesn't sound like a comfort. Doesn't even sound patronizing. It sounds like pity.

June says, swallowing, "Did she know about me?"

"Yes," her mother says, and then June's half-running out the front door, unwilling to hear anything else.

* * *

She isn't really thinking as she wanders—not about where she's headed, at least. For a moment she considers sneaking into the school again, but it's cold, and she's not wearing a jacket, and the thought of having to dry off is exhausting. June's sure she'll start crying if she gets near water, anyway. It makes her think of Skiatook and how she'll probably never see it again.

They haven't visited in months, and they probably won't for a while. The only one left up there is her grandmother, taken care of by extended family that June loves but only sees when they visit. Money's tighter than ever—her momma taking time off ain't just unlikely, it's impossible at this point.

Her mother hasn't said anything directly, but Auntie isn't getting better. It's why Sonny comes by more often, why he brings things. Once she's sixteen, June figures she'll drop out and get to work. Lately it all seems inevitable, heavy like a cold thunderstorm when the raindrops are so cold it hurts. Not so much grief but a deep-set exhaustion that's taken residence in June's bones, like the past year is suddenly too much.

Rather than lead her to school, her feet follow the bus route that leads to her father's home, something she must have unintentionally memorized. It's longer walking, and she's only got a sweater on. The cold settles on her quickly, but she crosses her arms, picks up her pace. Tries to make sense of why this route seems so familiar when she's only come this way with purpose once, and by bus that time, besides.

She's at a stoplight, shivering and waiting for the light to change, when a black Fairlane pulls up. She glances at it from the corner of her eye and then turns her head more fully, eyebrows raised.

Tim Shepard's got the same expression on his face, and he leans towards the passenger side, nearest to her, and says, "You lost, baby Curtis?"

June can't help it—she scowls. She knows it's an ugly expression, the way her lip curls, too much teeth on display. She ain't the youngest, and she ain't a Curtis. Instead of saying this (not least of which because she knows it'll make her seem all the younger), she asks, "This how you talk to all your broads?"

He's got a lion's smile. It makes June straighten her back on principle, like she's got to be on high alert when he looks like that. Most men don't scare her; Tim ain't the exception, but it might be worthwhile for her to remember why he has the reputation he has. She doesn't often feel like she needs to prove herself.

"You're a li'l too young for me, doll," he says, "and I know all your brothers, besides. Don't think ol' Superman'll be too pleased to think I like girls who ain't free before three."

June blinks at him, wonders which of the Curtis boys he's referring to. It can't be anyone but Darry—as broad as their father was, maybe broader, handsome like a movie star. Soda's too blonde, wiry, and Ponyboy clearly waiting on a few growth spurts. She says, "Good to know," and it makes him laugh.

"You need a ride?" he says. He looks relaxed, deceptively so. June doesn't like it.

The light's already changed, but the road's not busy, and it's not like Tim's blocking off the whole intersection. He's got a calculating expression on his face; June's heard he's cold and impassive, but both times she's spoken to him—today, and at Buck's all that time ago—he seemed a little bit amused by her. He has siblings, she knows. Maybe she reminds him of them. She's not sure what else would merit the reaction; she knows when men want her. That's not what she's picking up by a longshot, not from Tim.

"Why," she says, and tightens her grip on her elbows. She's shivering now, wondering if letting her hair out of its braid would have made her warmer or colder. Wondering what this Eastside hood wants from her.

Tim says, "You're shaking like a twister's coming through."

"I'm fine."

He doesn't look impressed. "Ain't afraid of catching pneumonia, then?"

"Maybe I like the cold."

"You're a lot like your brothers, you know that?" he says, "Shit, like mine too. Always got something to say. Get in the car, Curtis, I'm taking you home."

"I don't even know you," June says, but her teeth are chattering so she listens. Her fingertips feel numb, and she tucks them under her arms once she's in the car. Tim doesn't have the radio on; the inside of his car smells like smoke, _mota_ and cigarettes layering over one another.

He asks, "Where'm I taking you?"

"Where you headed?"

He tilts her head at her. She feels herself flush, realizes how bad that sounds.

"I mean," she says, backtracking, "I ain't tryna put you out, alright. I was headed—uh. To see the boys, I guess."

"Ain't sure, huh?" Tim turns his head away, pulls away from the curb. "Probably better than running 'round with that cousin you got, I'd say."

She stiffens. "What d'you know about Sonny?"

"I've known him for a little while," he says, his eyes still on the road. "Ain't much to know besides him being a King, anyway. Last I checked, they didn't jump little girls in."

June bites her lip to keep from arguing—it's true, anyway, not that she likes being described as a child. All the work they do, that's man's work, always has been. That Sonny has let her tag along is as much because they're blood and because June needs the money, sometimes. Says, instead, feeling like a kid anyway, "I dunno what you mean."

"Right," he says, "my sister says the same shit to me. You head to Buck's often?"

"What happens if I say yes?"

"If you was my sister I'd grab the chancla," he tells her. "Odds are your brothers won't like the sound of that."

"That ain't their business," she says, and finally moves her hands to her lap, feeling far warmer than she was outside. "Or yours."

"Trust me, kid," he says, and the streets are still familiar as he makes a turn, like she really has memorized the route already no matter how brief her last visit, "I catch you 'round Buck's again, I'll make it my business."

She looks at him, raises his eyebrow. "What's it matter to you?"

He grins a little. The same lion's smile. "Your brothers live in Shepard territory."

He doesn't say anything besides that, and June takes a deep breath. If she were outside the shock of it would tether her, air so cold it could seep into her bloodstream as fast as her lungs would let it. Neither of them are strangers, not to each other and not to the life that Tim clearly lives, nineteen years old with a name that bears more recognition with each passing day.

June looks at him, still driving, the strong profile and the dark hair. He would be good-looking, she thinks, if it weren't for that scar down his face. As it is, he looks about as scary as any downtown hood she's grown up with.

Lucky for her, she's never really been afraid of them, even if it seems like everyone thinks she should be. She says, "You know what you saved me from, that night."

Tim tilts his head at her. Eyes too knowing, like he's got his finger on the pulse of this town. Like he wasn't a kid not too long ago. Like he ain't still half a kid, to others. "Folks go to Buck's for a lotta things."

"You supply some of them, right?"

"If you're asking what I think you're asking," he says, voice tinged with a sudden hardness that June wasn't expecting, "you can forget it. You might be used to what the Kings get up to nowadays, but that shit don't slide 'round here."

She folds her hands together, careful. Thinks of the drugs that Milagros funnels through King territory, how the money she and Sonny have made can never truly be clean. Remembers the parties Alcaraz has thrown, and how Sonny hovers when she visits no matter who's around or what time of day. What kind of girls come close and which ones stay away. She feels foolish for it, now.

Tim looks at her, shakes his head. They're close to the Curtis house now, and soon she can bolt from this car and from whatever it is Tim is doing, trying to get to figure her out.

She says, instead, "You don't know me."

"I knew your daddy," Tim says, as they turn onto the right block, "I know your cousin, and Milagros, and that fucking clown Alcaraz. You might be the daughter of one but you'll never run with the Kings." When they stop in front of the Curtis house he looks at her again. He still ain't scary, June thinks. But she can see why folks think it. "Consider yourself lucky."

"Thanks for the ride," she says instead.

"I'd suggest calling one'a your brothers," Tim says, turning away again, "next time you're tryna get over here. It's a long walk."

"I can handle myself."

"Right," he says, and after she climbs out she watches him hit reverse, driving off without a care. For a second she envies him.

Then she remembers where she is. She doubts they'll be happy to see her—except for maybe Sodapop. That'll have to be enough.

* * *

She doesn't bother knocking—Soda mentioned it, last time he took her out for a burger, which he seems to like doing: no one ever bothers. The door's never locked, the couch always open to whoever needs it. She told him they were fixing to get robbed with that attitude, and then he said the threat of Darry alone was enough to keep real hoodlums away.

June's not sure what he means by _real hoodlums_, but it doesn't really matter to her. When she walks in it smells like lemon, the fresh scent of a newly-cleaned kitchen. It's early afternoon, warm inside, and she shivers despite herself. There's a TV blaring, and when she peeks into the living room it's tuned to an Athletics game. She jumps when she hears someone say her name, flinches when it's not the brother she was looking for.

Ponyboy looks…not displeased, exactly, but unimpressed. He's dressed for lounging, it seems like. His hair's messy, and this time around she can see how light the ends of it look. She raises an eyebrow but doesn't ask after that, says instead, voice feeling oddly loud in their hallway, "Is Sodapop around?"

"No," he says, sour look on his face and all. There's a notebook in his grip, pencil in his free hand. He looks on the defense, and June tilts her head. Odd, that he's the one feeling out of sorts just at the sight of her, as if this house isn't familiar to him like the back of his hand must be. If anything she should feel awkward, knowing she's back in the house that raised her secret brothers. That's certainly how she felt the first time she showed up, like she was seeing light for the first time, and she tries to keep her expression serious rather than let the memories show on her face.

Today, though, she doesn't feel the same, something familiar about it for whatever reason, like the walk over here. She wants to take a closer look, suddenly, at the handful of pictures on the wall, wants to dig into the heart of this house and devour it whole. She catches sight of a family photo, one that features the five of them, and her heart clenches—it's the same one she saw back in October, the one the papers printed.

Caroline Curtis, blonde like a movie star. Dead the same night as her husband, three sons left behind on the Eastside to scrounge like the rest of them. The wife, not the other woman, not like June's mother. The one who knew about June and never said anything. June hurts so fiercely she can't speak.

"What," Ponyboy says, and she slowly, painfully, turns her head to him. His gaze bounces between her and the photo she was so obviously staring at, his expression tender and cracked open despite the bravado in his tone.

June swallows. "I seen that picture before, 's all."

He frowns. "Where?"

"In the papers," she says, and hesitates. She's only gotten a few details from Soda about the murder case, and she still struggles to wrap her head around what she _does_ know. Some rich white boy dead and her brother just one of the living witnesses, albeit one who was nearly killed himself the night it happened and then afterwards, in a fire while he was on the run. Fourteen years old and burying his best friends all at once. Soda is serious in a way that seems inappropriate on him when he talks about it, so she's only ever brought it up once.

He must realize that's what she's referencing, maybe, or perhaps he's thinking of whatever obituary must have been published in the papers all those months ago, because his expression shutters, closed-off now, nothing she could even pretend to find friendly about it. They have the same chin; she remembers noticing that. Something about the jawline familiar, and it's odd all over again, to think of the pieces of her that are scattered all over this city, or maybe just in this home.

She says, when the both of them are quiet for so long her ears start to ring, "D'you know when Soda'll be back?"

When he smiles there's something bitter about it. "Ain't here to see no one else, huh?"

She stiffens. She can't quite keep the attitude out of her voice when she speaks. "Don't nobody else want me around."

His eyebrows furrow. The TV's still blaring, and she wonders if he was the one watching. Soda told her he ran track, usually, even if he was taking time off from cross country this year on account of—well, all that happened. When he speaks next he doesn't deny it, but he sounds confused nonetheless: "How'd you get here, anyway?"

She shrugs, says, "I ran into a mutual friend of ours," and feels a little pleased to see his face screw up in confusion. He looks younger like that. She feels silly just thinking it, barely a year and a half older than him, but it's true nonetheless.

"Who?" he asks, sounding genuinely intrigued, and she bites the inside of her cheek, hesitant suddenly, to be talking to this brother who she barely knows. She's not sure how tuned he is to the realities of Tulsa's streets, ain't even positive he's got the full story when it comes to living in Shepard territory and having a dead King for a daddy.

"Tim Shepard," she finally says, and maybe she's imagining the impressed look that flickers, briefly, across Ponyboy's face.

"You know him." It's not a question.

"Who don't," she says, shrugging like she doesn't think it's a big deal. Truth is she's still trying to figure out what it means, that he calls her _Baby Curtis_ like she might've belonged in this house, too. "You gonna offer me a drink or something? 'S good manners."

He rolls his eyes—reminds her of Sonny, or of the younger boys when they're testing her. She lets herself imagine, for a split-second, that she had grown up knowing him. Knowing all three of these Curtis boys, running wild, maybe, all of them together in this house that kept them safe. He tilts his head towards the kitchen before walking towards it, says, "We got water."

"Sure," she says as she trails after him, and then sits, gingerly, out-of-place, at their table. Ponyboy leaves the glass in front of her and very carefully takes a seat across the table, looks around the room like he's never been here before. She watches him avoid watching her while she takes a sip, purses her lips after. "You by your lonesome most Saturdays?"

"No." He fiddles with the journal he was holding, now set on the table, opposite his own drink. Maybe a homework assignment, she thinks, and her stomach sinks at the thought of the pile she's yet to touch back in her own room. "Soda or Darry's usually around."

She nods, takes another sip of her drink. She feels like she should be making conversation, but everything feels either too personal or unimportant to discuss. She's speaking to someone she should know everything about already, but who might as well be a stranger. All she's got to go off is that story in the paper and the handful of things Soda's told her. Sometimes he'll stop himself in the middle of one, sheepish, like his having had a childhood is somehow an insult to hers. Other times he'll forget she wasn't there and share what could have been a memory. She's not sure which makes her feel worse.

Ponyboy asks, "You just came by to see him?"

"Yeah," she says, running her fingers over the condensation on her glass, "something like that." She catches his eye for a split-second, both of their gazes skittering off each other like spooked colts, "It quiet like this on the weekends?"

"Naw," he says, and then frowns. "Maybe sometimes. Usually one'a them'll have the night off. Depends."

"Y'all switch off dinner then, huh?"

"Yeah," he says. "Ain't it like that with—at your house?"

She bites the inside of her cheek again, wonders if he was going to bring up _her_ family, living hand to mouth but at least _living_, "'S usually me. Ain't too bad."

His eyes are knowing. She doesn't like it. They stare at each other for too long, and June starts to wonder what she's doing here, anyway. Maybe she should have just left, soon as Ponyboy said Soda wasn't around. Maybe she shouldn't have come here at all.

She asks, "What d'you do, then?"

"When?"

"When it's just you here," she says.

He frowns a little. "Just school stuff, I guess," and grins a little when she makes a face. "Soda thinks so, too."

"I ain't a fan of it, 's all."

"Yeah," he says, "just like Soda," and June feels at peace for a split-second. "You really just came by to see him?"

"We get lunch, sometimes," she says, "burgers. I figured I'd save him the drive. He don't need be going so far East every time."

"He said he stays outta Brumly."

"Me too," she says, frowning. "We don't drive out that far East."

Ponyboy shrugs. "I hear there's trouble out there."

June stares at him. There's an unsaid question—or maybe set of them—that he's implying. She's not a fan of guessing games, though. If he wants to know the truth he's got to ask for it.

She says, because they both know it's the truth, "That's just Tulsa, sometimes." He should know that better than anyone.

"Sometimes," he says. "You gotta go looking for it, seems like."

June swallows, says, "Maybe for some, sure."

His expression is unreadable when he says, "Your ma lets you run with the River Kings, then?" and she reels back like he's smacked her.

"What?" Her voice is a hiss.

He squares his still-soft jaw. "Soda don't keep secrets," he says, and she barely manages to keep from laughing. Otherwise she might cry, thinking of how her mother said the same about their father. Either way, Ponyboy might know Soda better than she does, but that doesn't mean he knows men better. All of them lie. Their brother ain't an exception.

She says instead, "You don't gotta worry about my ma. You don't know her."

Something about it makes the fire burn in his eyes. He says, "Don't think I'd want to," and she can tell it's an insult.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she snaps, knowing already, saying it anyway. Her face is hot.

"She had a baby with someone who was married," he says, and when he scowls she sees herself reflected. It makes him look younger.

She exhales, hard, says, "You think it was all her idea then?" When he just looks confused she continues, "Daddy didn't let your ma stop him from getting to mine. Not Darry or Soda, neither. You think of that?"

He flushes, red to nearly match his hair. June watches his knuckles go white over the edge of the table. "He wasn't like that."

"What would you know?" she says, "You was hardly thirteen, wasn't you, when he—when the accident—"

She cuts herself off. Breathes harshly, the words hurting even as they get trapped in her throat. The feeling is clearly shared by Ponyboy, who watches her with hurt eyes, mouth a thin line.

When she catches her breath she says, "You don't know what you're talking about."

"He loved my mom." His voice wavers on the last syllable.

"He loved mine too," she says, and her voice is surprisingly steady. Ponyboy shakes his head, and it makes a hot spike of anger lance through her. "What?"

He says, "He never left us," and all the air in her lungs escapes. She can't speak, tries, but she's quiet for so long he says, like he needs to drive the point home, "It's true."

"That's not fair," she manages, finally. "You don't know the half of it."

"He wouldn'ta done that to my ma," Ponyboy says. Pauses, and then half-corrects himself when he admits, "He shouldn't have—you was probably—she must'a not known."

June laughs and it's ugly. Patronizing like Sonny gets, sometimes. Her tone ain't much better when she says, "You think she was stupid? Your momma knew about me. She knew all about it."

It doesn't matter that June doesn't know if that's entirely true. All she's got is her mother's words, still fresh, and repeating a version of them out loud stings like salt in an open wound. All of this feels like a cut that hasn't healed—doesn't matter that their daddy's body is long cold, or that new tragedies have hit these boys like the ones that'll probably hit her real soon, too. This secret family thing, or maybe the fact that _June_ was only half a secret to this family, is only making her confused. Maybe she's a little mad, too.

But while she might be quietly angry with her mother right now, she'll be damned if she lets someone who don't know anything about them try to turn Faye Blue Thunder into something she's not. June's not so naïve as to think the love that bound her mother and father together was something like pure romance, not when she always knew there was a wife. The idea of one and what that meant, though, didn't really sink in until last month's paper fell into her lap. It's embarrassing to admit.

But all the new information she's getting, _that_ she's trying to be a little more critical about. So she's not about to have some bratty ninth grader try to imply shit she knows simply ain't true.

Ponyboy says, clearly hurt, "How would she know…"

"Men ain't hard to keep track of," June says, like she has a clue, "you just ain't had to learn. 'Course not. Why else would you've looked so surprised when I showed up? Soda wasn't. Darry wasn't." Maybe they weren't expecting her, but they were resigned, she thinks. At least Darry was. And she's not feeling too charitable towards this brother, not after that dig about their daddy leaving June.

He left all of them, if she really sits down to think about it. Didn't matter that only Caroline was wearing a ring. When she says so, she knows she's crossed a line; it doesn't make her regret it, though. It's like she can see every emotion on his face, the wet eyes, and when he finally manages to speak again she straightens up.

"You should prob'ly leave," he says, sounding just like Darry. He's cold like she should have been expecting, and she nods despite herself. The fury is still burning brightly but she can feel the sting of tears building, too, knows she should get out of this house for more reasons than one. That she ain't wanted is only one aspect—she's not one to shed tears in front of anyone, never has been.

"You're right," she says, and drains her cup before she stands. She says, "First time for everything, huh?" marching out the door without looking back.

* * *

It's just her luck that the brother she came over for finally shows up as she's leaving.

"Hey, hey, hey," Soda says when he catches sight of her coming down the porch steps, smile twisting into a frown faster than June can blink away her furious tears. "June? What's going on?"

"Nothing," she says, trying to step past him. She'll walk home, Tim Shepard's unfriendly advice be damned.

He doesn't let her, though, catches her by the arms, his expression concerned. His hands are stained with motor oil, the smell just as strong. Anger sits, coiled somewhere deep inside her, and it's nearly blinding. "What's wrong?"

"I wasn't a secret," she snaps, like he has any idea what that might mean. She dives right into it, says, "Your ma knew about me. She knew about my momma. Darry did too."

Soda goes pale. "Whadaya mean, he knew?"

She's still trembling. "Not me," she corrects, something like guilt lacing her words, "he said—he said he didn't know about me. But he knew about my ma, at least, he had to. He wasn't surprised at all when I showed up here."

He frowns. "That don't mean he knew—"

"Then what does it mean, huh?" She tries to jerk out of his grip and he lets her. His hands fall to his side, but his expression—still pale, still concerned—doesn't turn mean. "I gotta. I gotta head home."

"Why're you out here?" he says, and flinches at how it sounds. "I mean—you bus over here? You could'a called me."

"I'm fine," she says, and rubs the back of her hand over her eyes. "Ponyboy's inside."

"I know," Soda says. "Y'all talked, looks like. He makes the same face after a fight with Darry."

"Sure," she says, and sniffs. She's cold already. The temperature's dropped since she arrived. She looks away from Soda, rather than watch him hesitate, glancing between her and the front door. She tries to cover it all up, asks, "Your turn for dinner, then?" and he shakes his head.

"Naw," he says. "Pony's turn, today. I'm driving you home."

"I don't—"

"Wait here," he says, and tugs on her sleeve until she looks at him. "A'right?"

"Fine," she says, and crosses her arms while he bounds inside. He's back a few minutes later, and she's shivering already. He opens the door for her like she remembers their father doing for her mother. He even shuts it for her, and she has to blink away the rush of tears the memory incites.

The smell of motor oil is stronger inside, cigarettes too. She's lighting one up by the time Soda's climbing into the driver's seat and he snags it from her, takes a leisurely drag before passing it back. He exhales in a steady stream, his focus entirely on the road ahead of him and not June at all.

She says, "I thought you said you don't smoke."

"I don't," he says, "maybe on a bad day."

"Today bad?"

"Not every night I come home and find my kid sister and my kid brother fixing to start bawling." He glances at her, and June carefully tilts her head towards the window, reaching out to crank it open an inch or two. She takes her own drag off the cigarette and exhales slowly. "You gonna tell me what the real problem is?"

She waits a few seconds to respond. "No."

It makes Soda laugh. "Fair 'nough," he says. "You ain't tell me if you bussed out here."

"I ran into Tim Shepard on my way over," she says, and she sees him stiffen from the corner of her eye. "He said something 'bout calling you for a ride, next time I was tryna get all the way out here."

Soda clears his throat a little, says, "Tim's a good guy."

"I know." She remembers him, that night in October, over a month ago by now. For a man with a reputation like his he's awful protective of girls, it seems like. June knows he has a sister, and not just because he mentioned her earlier. The Shepard name, fresh as the gang is, is a known one. Tim would do anything for either brother or sister. June knows that.

Maybe that's something Soda admires. She wonders if he's anything like that—wonders what sorts of things he's willing to do to keep the people he loves safe. She's seen that flash of protectiveness in his eye before, not just the time he and Sonny were sizing each other up. Not two months he's known June exists but already she gets the sense that he feels responsible for her, somehow. It don't make a lick of sense to her, but she knows better than to try and dig into it.

That's men and boys, maybe. Part of her hopes it's not, though. Maybe she likes the thought of someone choosing to care in the face of all the secrets her mere existence suggests. Maybe she wants the chance to have a brother like Soda.

"You ain't gotta tell me all the dirty details," he starts, after they've been driving for a few minutes, the streets just as familiar as her trip there, "but Pony seemed real shaken up, too."

She makes a noncommittal noise, reaches up to ash her cigarette out the window. Soda huffs a little.

"What'd Darry say to you?"

"He said not to come around." It makes him flinch again, even if she already told him so when he came out that first time to try and make nice.

"That's not what I meant."

"So say so."

"Christ," he mutters. "What he say then, huh, about knowing?"

"He didn't know about me," she says. Her voice comes out dull but she feels her pulse race. "He wasn't surprised, though."

"You ain't know about us."

"No."

"You know about—our ma?"

"Yeah." They haven't talked about this part. Talked around it, mostly, after some half-mumbled apologies for their respective attitudes, that first time they saw each other face-to-face.

He says, "What'd you know?"

June stays quite for a long time. It's getting dark out, and she watches shadows pass over her folded hands as they drive. She says, voice cracking, not an answer but close enough, "He said he loved us," and listens as Soda exhales heavily.

He says, voice harder than she expected, "He shouldn'ta kept you a secret." June turns to him in surprise, but he doesn't take his eyes off the road in front of them, just shakes his head, jaw tight.

She says, "That wouldn'ta changed anything."

"You don't know that." He's still shaking his head.

Her voice is careful when she speaks. "Neither do you."

Soda stays quite until they're in front of her house. He doesn't bother cutting the engine, but he tilts his head to look at her. "You ain't do nothing to us, alright? All'a that was Dad's decision. All of it."

"And my momma? Yours?"

"I wasn't…" Soda pauses, looks like he's searching for the words. He says, "Darry and me, we knew that Dad wasn't always. Wasn't always perfect. Hell, wasn't perfect a lot of the time." His expression is resigned. "I didn't know I had a sister, but you showing up wasn't all that surprising, neither. Me and Darry figured he had another woman for years."

She stares at him. "You knew about my ma, then."

"No," he corrects, gently. "We knew he was hiding something. You think I wouldn'ta came out here looking for you if I knew you was just waiting?"

"I ain't waiting for nothing or nobody," June says, frowning, and it makes him grin.

"Good." He rubs a hand over his face. Says, "Pony don't get it. It's not his fault."

"I said that."

"That ain't exactly what he told me," he says, grinning wryly, "but I believe you, too."

She rolls her eyes, says, "How can both of us be right?"

"'Cause I said so," he says, and she grins a little, despite herself. He looks pleased, and then asks, sounding nervous, "You think about what I asked? A few weeks ago?"

"About what?"

"Thanksgiving's this Thursday," Soda says, still looking at her. She flinches, turns her head away. Sets her sights on the little house where she spent so long hidden away, the home Soda might have come looking for her if only he'd known she was there. "You coming by?"

"Ma's working," she says, careful. "I've got to watch the boys."

She hears him sigh. "Right. Her sister doing any better?"

June bites her lip. "No. Not really." She turns to look at him again and he's sad. Maybe over her auntie, or her not coming by for a holiday that means nothing, or the things that set off whatever argument she and Ponyboy got into today. Their father at the root of it all. She says, "Thanks for the ride home."

"Anytime, kiddo," he says, half a grin on his face, and he waits until she's inside the house again to leave. June watches him through the screen door and wonders why it hurts to see him go.

* * *

It had been on a dare that I first be-  
gan to explore the wilds of Indian Hill. I was chased  
by a white horse and tore my shirt on barbed wire trying  
to get away, but that didn't stop me.  
[…] I was there when Indian Hill  
was bulldozed. I took a pencil and paper up to the  
worksite. I decided I was going to write a eulogy and  
perhaps also draw a picture so I could always remember  
what it looked like before it became a freeway. I was  
chased away by the workmen. They were more threatening  
than the white horse, so I've learned.

(Naomi Martinez Littlebear, "Real House")


	4. four

…yet what difference is muscle is an arrow powered upward or any flight to center when I / did not hear it though I clearly mouthed _poor thing poor thing poor thing _(Layli Long Soldier, "Talent")

* * *

She should maybe have seen it coming. It's not something new or foreign to this side of town, where the boys burn brightly and then crash with the kind of bang that one expects when they think of the end of the world. It isn't even something unfamiliar to the Blue Thunder line, not that they ever talk about it.

Sonny comes by the last weekend before holiday break, looking tired, worn out. More than just his seventeen years show on his face. His ma is in the hospital after an overdose. Rumor has it she might not get better, but June hasn't gone by to see her; she's not sure even he has.

"Blue," he says, and just stares at her for a long time.

June makes a face. She's on the couch, TV too loud because of her for once, the younger boys pouting at having to lose the remote to her. She's in pajamas because there's no reason to not be, and her mother's packed dinner is waiting on the stove. Her aunt Celeste is home, too, resting while her mother gets ready for work. June is technically no longer grounded, but there's tension between them like there never has been before. She could ask, maybe, to go see one of the her girls, and chances are her mother would let her. But Celeste is no longer responding to treatments, which means this will be her last Christmas with them, probably, and June feels much older than fifteen, too.

She asks him what he wants and the odd expression on his face doesn't disappear. Instead he motions towards the kitchen, making June huff but hop up to follow him anyway. He's already pacing by the time she passes through the archway, doesn't look up even after she's taken a heavy seat at the table. Someone—probably one of the boys—left a half-eaten orange on a napkin, and June reaches for it, ends up with pulp underneath her fingernails when she tries to pull a segment off.

Sonny says, June with a thumb in her mouth to chase the taste of it, "My ma ain't gonna make it."

June stares at him. Puts both hands on the table and tries not to let them curl into fists. She feels young, suddenly, braid messy from sleep no matter that it's afternoon. She says, voice shaking, "What?"

He shakes his head, mouth a thin line. He scrubs the back of his hand over it, jaw tight. She doesn't recognize him. The expression on his face tells a story she's not ready to hear.

Sonny looks a lot like his momma. There's a good amount of Blue Thunder there, too, not just in the name that he, at least, managed to inherit from his father. But the shape of his face and the arch of his nose, that's from his ma's side. Mixed, too, but mostly Mexican and Indian like June ended up. Sonny don't like his old lady all that much. Hard to, when this ain't the first time she's wound up hospitalized because of her habit. Last time she did, though, it was her sisters that came around to try and get her back on her feet. She wasn't in as rough shape as she is now.

Sonny says, "I ain't got the money for it."

"For what?"

"Doctors said she needs to go away," he says. His eyes are dull. "That she's gotta be somewhere they can keep an eye on her, else she's gonna do herself in like this again sooner'n later. Hell, I ain't even the one who can commit her." He pauses, chews on his nails. He says, "Her sisters'll sign off on it but they said they ain't got enough money to pay. Hell, she ain't even off the machines yet. I can't pay for that, either."

"I…" She doesn't have words. Knows that platitudes are just that, and no matter what she does or doesn't say, Sonny's ma is probably going to die. It's the question of where and when, not how. That, too, shouldn't be a surprise. It makes something heavy settle in June's lungs, though all she can do is try to swallow the feeling. This is just life this far East. One day she'll be able to convince herself it doesn't bother her. She settles on, "I'm sorry."

When Sonny laughs it hurts. "It ain't much of a surprise." He slumps down in the chair across from her. "What a crock."

June offers him an orange. He takes it, and they sit for a long time. June doesn't bother hollering at the boys when they change the channel without her say so, and instead the two of them listen to some episode of the Stooges June hasn't seen. She wishes she had something to say.

When her mother walks in she looks surprised to find them both there.

"Sonny," she says, and then doesn't follow it up with _How's your ma?_

They were friendly once, too. The more she used the less June's mother wanted her around, though. June could ask her if she's had to take care of her at the hospital but that would mean actually speaking to each other and she's still too upset to do that. Just the thought makes her have to blink, hard, like it could stop her from feeling this way.

Her mother says, "You staying long, hon?"

June wonders if she wants him gone, too. Sonny shrugs, says, "Not too long, titi," and she nods.

She looks at June but almost like she's trying not to. June stares at the table, instead. She wonders what her mother sees when she looks like her. If it hurts or if it's a relief. June's not sure which would be worse. Lately, it seems like nothing can soothe any ache she carries, and it makes her toss and turn at night.

Her mother says, "I'm heading out now. Won't be back 'til late."

"Alright," June says. Sonny watches them closely. Curious. Not concerned.

"Celeste is resting."

"Okay."

Her mother looks at her, but June can't look back. She says, finally, "Okay," her voice an echo, and then the front door is clicking shut and all they can hear is Moe Howard yelling about something that makes the boys laugh.

June stares at the stove, the dinner she packed for her mother forgotten. She feels her eyes sting.

"Blue," Sonny says, and she tries to blink the tears away. "Don't tell me titi is still mad about you seeing them boys."

"'Course she is," she says, and her voice sounds fragile to her own ears, "she don't even think I got the right to be mad I didn't know the truth. You knew, too."

"Hey," he says, and he's frowning when she looks at him. "That ain't true. I told you, the rumors—"

"Yeah," she says, "alright. You heard rumors he had sons, right, or that the wife wasn't just some broad he couldn't leave, I bet. I been in their house. She lied to me. I get to be mad."

Sonny lights a cigarette. When June tries to protest—it's hell to get the smell out—he ignores her. "Don't think she agrees."

"She never agrees with me," June says, but stands up. She moves to the counter, reaches for the dinner her mother forgot to take with her. Even to her own ears she sounds tired. "She forgot her dinner."

"Your ma?"

"Who else." She takes it in both hands, the paper bag stiff under her touch. "I made it for her."

Whatever Sonny sees when she turns back towards him makes him groan. "Aw, Blue. It ain't a big deal."

"I know." If she blinks hard enough it might even come true.

He chews on his lower lip, and then heaves a massive sigh. "C'mon. We can drop it off for her. Wouldn't be the first time. Your daddy used to do that for her birthday, didn't he? Take you with, too."

June nods. Imagines her and her father in the car taking her mother lunch every year, how he let her choose the music and hold the flowers he'd buy for her. Poinsettias in December. She can still picture the way he'd smile, only now she sees how he looks as much like Soda, that reckless grin and those dancing eyes. It doesn't matter that she's still mad about all of this—the secrets and the lying and the way she seems to know less the more she learns. She misses him so badly she'd do anything to get him back, even for a single moment.

But she can't. She knows that.

Instead she says, "Let me get dressed," and doesn't wait for Sonny to argue.

Once in the car, Sonny says, "Shit's been bad with Brumly."

Her momma's lunch is in June's lap. Her fingers curl over it protectively; it ain't hardly been an hour since she left for work. Maybe forty-five minutes at most, and only that long because the boys started arguing about something and it took her a bit to get them separated. Her aunt Celeste was sleeping when she checked on her. It ain't that far of a drive to the hospital, not at this time on a Saturday, but it's close enough to Brumly territory that June probably should have expected him to bring up some news.

She presses her fingertips to her nose, inhales. She can still smell orange. "How bad?"

"Might be a rumble soon," he says. "Seems like they ain't letting the cold get ahold of them this year."

"No Christmas break, huh?"

"You ain't funny," he says, but he's grinning. June used to think they looked alike. They could almost be siblings. Except now the familiarity is fading, or maybe his life with the Kings is changing him, or maybe June is growing up different than how she expected to. Too much of her father's face in hers and too much of Sonny's ma in his.

"You gonna fight, then?"

"'Course," he says. They're maybe ten minutes from the hospital, now. June's in a thin sweater, one of Celeste's pulled from the closet as they left the house. Sonny's got his leather jacket on like always. It belonged to his father. There aren't that many photos of him in the house; June knows her momma has them, but they're tucked away in a photo album that her mother hardly ever brings out. Maybe it hurts to have a dead brother. June shivers. Tries to banish the thought. "Probably won't be just skins, though. Shit, I don't trust 'em to leave the heaters at home."

June makes a noise in her throat, somewhere between disgusted and unimpressed. She doesn't see the point of using weapons, can't seem to make sense of how that might translate into a fair fight. If it's just skin, sure; that's just proof a man can take a punch and throw some back, too. But knives? Guns? That ain't fair, in her opinion.

She's not allowed much of an opinion, though. Not with Sonny or her momma, at least. She's still figuring out the rest.

Sonny must not like the silence today, though, because he speaks again when she stays quiet. He says, "They treating you alright?" and June doesn't have to ask who he means.

She glances at him from the corner of her eye, drawls, "I ain't dreaming of moving in, if that's what you're asking."

"It ain't."

"I don't see them much."

"Yeah, you do," he says, "at least blondie. I asked around, you know.

She clenches her fingers in her lap. "And?"

"I hear Junior's twenty years old and taking care of two kids," he says, "sheesh."

"Soda's your age."

"Sure," Sonny says, like it's up for debate. He's infuriating. A few more streets and they'll be able to see the hospital. "You still hanging out with him?"

"Yeah." June digs her nails into her palms. It's a habit she should stop. Not today, though. "Once a week, about. He works at the DX."

"I heard that, too," Sonny says. "Be honest. You think it woulda made a difference if your ma told you the truth?"

"She didn't tell me the truth," June says, nearly a hiss, "I found out after reading the _paper_."

"Why'd you do that?"

She sighs, loud. Sonny just shakes his head—she wants to know what he's thinking, suddenly. What makes him think he can just bring this up. She remembers Soda saying he would have come looking for her, if he had known she existed, and wonders if he really would have. Wants to know if Sonny believes him, too. She knew she was her father's bastard child—even if thinking of it like that makes her want to lose it.

Sonny clearly thinks it wouldn't have made a real difference if those boys had known she had existed. Maybe Ponyboy would still hate her, for being the daughter of someone who stole at least some of their father's affections. Or maybe—and here, June's own heart betrays her—they'd have more in common than the same chin, the same scowl that Soda teased her about all those weeks ago, when his _kid brother and sister_ got into it. She tries to imagine having a real brother, not just Sonny and the boys, but it all comes up blank. That's not how life turned out. She doesn't want to waste time wondering, but…

She can't help it. She wants to have brothers and a father. It's not fair she's only gotten one or the other.

Instead of admitting this, though, she says, more demanding than she should be, perhaps, "You wouldn't wanna know? If you had family out there?"

"You're my family," he says, immediate. "My old man didn't have any kids 'sides me. And if he did, it don't matter anymore. He's been dead a long time. Ain't got nothing to get outta meeting some other kid without a daddy."

"Christ, Sonny," she says, bringing a hand up to her mouth, briefly. She resists the urge to bite her nails, knows all she'd find is the taste of pith. "You really wouldn't wanna know?"

"No."

She huffs, gives him a dirty look he misses. "So I'm crazy then? To wanna know them?"

"_Do_ you wanna know them?" He tilts his head. "Thought you was just hanging out with the one named after cola." When she doesn't answer he laughs a little. "C'mon, Blue. Who're you kidding?"

"Nobody," she says, and then turns away from him. "I just think it'd be nice."

"What would?"

"To not be alone." She knows it's the wrong thing to say. Can see it in how Sonny keeps glancing at her, his grip on the wheel tight. They used to spend every spare moment together, growing up. Thick as thieves no matter that she was a girl or he was a boy. If she had a best friend it would be Sonny. The Kings can't change that, even if Tulsa's trying to ruin them in different ways.

"Who says you're alone?"

"Sonny."

"What? When are you alone, huh?"

"Christ," she says, glancing at him and finding him giving her a dirty look already. "What, you think me chasing after the kids is real fun? Guess between home and school I'm set, huh."

"You got friends."

"Okay," she says, because she doesn't want to argue. The light ahead is red, and they come to a stop, easy. She doesn't even think to see who's standing at the corner waiting to cross. Just looks at Sonny, the hospital just around the next corner. "You got me. I'm never alone. I ain't missing nothing in my life."

"Goddamn it, Blue," Sonny says, and they're looking at each other when it happens. "You know that ain't what I'm saying. I don't see the goddamn point in chasing after them boys when it's clear the gabacha that raised them didn't give a fuck about no Indian—"

"How's it going, Blue Thunder," someone says, and June doesn't get a good look at the guy—hair greased, brown-skinned—before Sonny shoves her head down, her ears ringing as soon as the gun goes off.

* * *

Later, much later, when she can finally sit down and try to talk about it, she'll remember the blood. Not the color, but how it felt. The spray of it, how it dried tacky and coated her hair and then her hands when she tried to grab at Sonny. How it made it hard to grab the steering wheel, how they careened almost gently into the curb while she screamed and while Sonny bled out on her. Much later, she'll talk about it with the same syntax Ponyboy learns to use—_avoiding the inevitable_, like coming to a slow stop would somehow keep Sonny from dying.

It didn't. Sonny's dead.

June lies under the covers with her palms facing upwards and her mother puts her hand on her forehead. Says, "Baby," with a voice she's never heard before, worse than when they got the news about her daddy. June doesn't say anything back. "June."

"It's my fault," she says. She might not have pulled the trigger but she as good as delivered him, didn't she? There's a word for that—accomplice, she thinks, a part of the bigger plot without even knowing it. Just thinking it hurts. It must be her fault he's dead and all she wants is to take it back.

Before she had brothers, if she indeed has any, she had Sonny, and she was the one who cradled his bloodied body until the paramedics showed up. She remembers screaming. It's fresh in her memory still—how could it not be? It must be in the paper already, the Sunday edition jampacked with coupons and dead boys alike. _Yesterday afternoon youth Sonny Blue Thunder was fatally shot at an intersection. He is survived by his mother_. Maybe they mentioned June. Maybe they called her a witness. Or victim. Both, or maybe neither.

Her mother says, again, "Baby," and strokes her hair. They took her in an ambulance, too. Not with Sonny, who was still alive but as good as dead. She doesn't know who called the police, just screamed and screamed and held onto him, desperate, until the paramedics were prying her away. Things get fuzzy after that. What she remembers first afterwards is her mother's face, nurse uniform on and her hands cold over June's. Clutching is the word that comes to mind.

June doesn't know how hard it is to survive a bullet to the head. It doesn't really matter, anyway, because Sonny didn't, and now she's as alone as he said she wasn't. Tears spill down her face, wetting her hair and ears and neck, and all her mother can do is repeat her name.

At some point she falls asleep. It's early, still. June knows she'll have to talk to the police eventually, but that can probably wait a little while. Her mother hasn't brought it up, so she won't either, and not just because she's not sure how to make the words come out. They released her late the night before, when her mother was supposed to be leaving work anyway. She didn't work her shift after June and Sonny arrived, though; June remembers nothing but the weight of her mother's hand in hers for all those hours they had her lie in a cot while they checked her vitals over and over.

They said words like _shock_ and _trauma_ and _whiplash_ but the car wasn't going fast and June wasn't covered in her own blood. Physically she was whole. Within twenty minutes of Sonny being pronounced dead, she was in her mother's car heading home. Soon enough she was in bed. Not sleeping, but not awake either.

When she wakes up the clock reads _12:01_. She tries to convince herself she's had a bad dream but it's not true. When she fell asleep it was gray like mornings are this time of year. She dreamt of Sonny's voice. The weight of his hand on her head when he pushed her down in the passenger seat. Kept hearing the too-loud _bang!_ that preceded the silence.

Awake, she can hear voices. The TV isn't too loud today. Her mother is talking to a man.

In the hallway, floorboards creak. Her mother's voice floats through the air, "She ain't slept much. If she's awake…"

"I just wanna see her," Soda says. Normally June would feel surprised at both his presence _and_ at the mournful tone he speaks with. Right now she can't muster the energy. "I saw the papers and—I'm so sorry—"

"Let me see if she's sleeping," her mother interrupts, and June meets her eyes when she enters the room. Her expression softens. "My love," she says, and comes close to her. She cups her face in one hand. "One of…Sodapop is here for you."

"You let him in the house." Her voice has no inflection. She's not sure she remembers how to sound different. "He looks like his ma."

Her mother flinches. She takes her hand back. "You don't hafta see him."

June turns away from her. Stares up at the ceiling and says, "I don't mind," because she doesn't feel particularly strongly either way.

Her mother watches her. "You sure?"

"Yes."

"Do you wanna see him?"

"Does he know?"

Her mother doesn't ask for clarification. Her voice is carefully neutral—like she has to think about it. June sounds like what a machine might, she figures, assuming the future can really deliver on all those fantastic promises the books she barely skims for class seem to fixate on. She says, "I told him."

"Send him in, then," June says, but doesn't bother sitting up. Her hair is a mess. She usually braids it before bed, but last night, after they got home from the hospital, her mother had her bend over the bathroom sink while she scrubbed at it. Afterwards she let it fall over her pillow, still dripping.

Faye doesn't bother closing the door after Soda comes in, just disappears elsewhere in the house. It's strange to imagine every other thing in June's life is the same except for Sonny. Instead of thinking of this, she lets her gaze drop to Soda.

He looks terrible, which is probably bold coming from June. Shirt wrinkled and a flannel thrown on over it, hair messily greased back and so unlike all the other times she's seen him. She can't help but let her eyebrows furrow.

She speaks first. "What's wrong with you?"

For a long minute Soda just stares at her. When he finally manages to answer, his voice is rough. "Your ma said you was there."

It hurts to hear. June has to swallow the pain down before she can manage a response, and she doesn't sound much better than Soda once she does. She says, "Yeah. I'm sure I look it, too." She needs to shower. At the hospital her mother scrubbed the blood off her hands and face and neck, where it had dripped or smeared or whatever it did, to have ruined the clothes she was wearing. Someone offered a spare sweater and she came home in it, practically drowning in the material. She still feels dirty. Can almost convince herself she smells iron and oranges.

"June," Soda starts, and then stops himself. There's a chair in the corner of the room next to June's closet. She's not sure who brought it in the first place, but sometimes she can't reach her top shelf, and it always comes in handy when she needs it. He says, "Can I move that over here?" and waits for her to say yes before he does so.

When it's clear he doesn't have much to say, the silence between them broken only by the steady jumping of his knee, shoe a subtle _thump_ against the hardwood floor, she says, "What're you doing out here?"

She's never seen him like this. Sure, she hasn't known him that long, has only had an idea of him since October, but the Sodapop she's come to recognize is not the one that sits in a chair in her room and stays quiet. It's unnerving. It's almost a distraction.

He says, "It's in the papers." She knows this already, at least in theory. He shakes his head when she says so. There's something fragile about him when he speaks—like he's walking a tightrope, on the edge of something big. "I recognized the last name. I remember us meeting out by Hale that one time. I just wanted to see you."

"My momma told you what happened."

"Did you—" he stops himself. Starts over. "She said you wasn't hurt none, but if you—if you was in the car with him, then—"

"He pushed me," she says. She has to look away from Soda. Can't keep herself from imagining Sonny there with her instead and remembering the two of them in the car. Seventeen in September and dead by Christmastime. If she thinks about it she'll scream. "Hit my head on the dashboard but they only… it was only one shot. They wasn't thinking of me at all."

She takes a deep breath and it aches. There's a bruise at her hairline her mother kept checking yesterday, but the doctor said she looked fine, no signs of a concussion, _let her get some rest, Nurse_.

She says, "I'm fine," and it tastes like a lie. From the look on his face, Soda recognizes it too. What are the odds that the both of them have witnessed someone get shot to death? She remembers the papers, devouring the second- and thirdhand accounts. Some kid named after the city their daddy left shot to death by the police the same week he was called a hero and a hood. Her own blood caught up in that in more ways than one, even if something in her aches to think of Ponyboy there, too—can't help but remember the way his age was so clear when she looked at him, same damned chin or no.

Soda says, "I'm sorry," and June has to blink, hard.

She says, mouth dry, "Why."

He doesn't seem to know how to answer her. Says, "No one should hafta see that," and she bites down on the inside of her cheek.

She says, "No one should die like that."

Maybe she's a little satisfied by the flash of hurt that flits across Soda's face. Maybe she's trying to feel something again. Picking a fight is suddenly appealing, no matter that she's tired and every time she closes her eyes she sees Sonny staring at her and, really, she doesn't want to fight at all, least of all with Soda. Not when she's learned how to read him already, like a lesson she'd simply forgotten and unearthed all at once.

He says, "Who said that?"

Her lower lip trembles. She can't keep her eyes on him, or the wall, or even the ceiling. Everything feels raw. Everything is _unfair_. She says, "Why are you _here_?" and doesn't recognize her own voice. "What's it matter to you that Sonny's—that he's—" She has to pause, breathe in real deep, air rattling in her lungs. "What do _you_ care what happens to me, huh?"

Soda stares at her. Seems like there's a lot of that today, a lot of silences that June doesn't know what to do with. She hates it. When he speaks it's clear he's hurt: "Why wouldn't I care? I'm your brother."

"No, you're not," June says. Her voice is very high, and the words come spilling. "You're _half_, alright? You're half a brother, and I didn't even know you existed 'fore October, so don't think you can come in here and, and, take his place or nothing, alright, when I was the one who saw him—" She breaks off. Takes a breath like she's gasping.

Soda says, eyes no longer dancing like she's come to recognize, "You really think that, June?"

When she takes a breath it's ragged. She says, "Sonny was my brother," and her voice breaks before she can get his name out. She says it again, sobbing, hand curling into a fist near her hip, "Sonny was my brother, and now he's _dead_."

When he gets up from the chair to wrap his arms around her she finds herself reaching right back, no matter that the tears are flowing freely or that she was clearly trying to start an argument. She can feel him rest a hand on the back of her head, petting her hair like their father used to, when June was small and being tucked into bed. Her breath catches, ragged. Tears keep slipping from the corners of her eyes.

He says, "Oh, honey," and tucks her head against his shoulder. "Take your time," he says, both of them shaking now, "I ain't going nowhere. Promise."

* * *

She doesn't go to school that week. Her mother doesn't ask at first, just lets June wake up to an empty home on Monday and Tuesday. She wanders the halls barefoot, like a ghost, and after dinner on Tuesday her mother asks, "D'you wanna go back to school tomorrow?"

June looks up from where she's been slowly, slowly scrubbing at dishes. There's only three days left before school's out for the holidays. She has an exam on Thursday, but she's sure it's common knowledge, now, that she was there when Sonny—she takes a deep breath. No doubt everyone's desperate to get ahold of anyone who can offer more information than what the paper says.

She hasn't read any of the articles; feels sick at the memory of reading the ones from the fall, seeking out every instance of _Curtis_ she could find. Whatever the newspaper said can't compare to living it. She knows that now. It feels like she owes someone an apology, but she's not sure who.

June puts the soaped up plate down. The boys are playing in their room. "Why're you asking me?"

Her mother looks sad. And tired. And a million other things that June thinks she can suddenly relate to, now. "I ain't gonna make you go if you don't want. It's the last week 'fore break. I figure there ain't much you'll be missing."

"Got a math test Thursday," June says, and rinses the plate. She doesn't look up at her mother when she speaks next, just soaps up the utensils that remain.

"June," her mother says. She keeps doing that: repeating her name, like one or the other needs a reminder. June hasn't said Sonny's name since Sunday, when she cried herself sick in Soda's arms like she had any right. She keeps telling herself he's as good as a stranger, but then the names of those two boys who died as hoods and heroes alike become tangible again and she tries to pretend it's okay. If anyone gets it, it's him.

The same could be said of Darry and Ponyboy, sure, but they didn't rush over to this home tucked further East than they tend to wander, so really, what's a girl to do?

"I'll go tomorrow," June says, still staring at the sink. No one's brought her homework. A couple girls called, brought dinner for the family, but none of them came inside to see her. Sonny's last words ricochet in her skull, all of them. What's it mean to be alone? What truth is still June missing? She finishes washing the dishes and dries her hands. When she turns, her mother is still watching her.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah." And then she goes to bed, where she stays awake until long after the whole world's gone quiet.

Wednesday passes in a blur. Her friends pretend nothing's wrong, and people watch her too closely. Someone says, _I hear she saw it happen_, as she passes by, and another says, _King business, you know them Blue Thunders_. It takes all her willpower not to scream. She's not sure she could be loud about it, anyway, and she goes home like it's a normal day and not the first Wednesday without Sonny. Maybe the second one will be easier. Just thinking about it steals all her breath again.

On Thursday, after she's taken her math test, when she's supposed to be heading to the cafeteria for slop, _that's_ when things get a little nasty.

Ester Vergara says, voice nasty behind her while June switches out her classwork, "It true you was there?" and June's hands curl tight around a textbook. Here she thought the other girl wouldn't want to risk another broken nose. It's not the same textbook she did it with, of course, but she figured maybe a lesson or two would have been learned.

June looks up at her, her expression carefully neutral. She's been mostly floating through classes the last day and a half, can see it in her teachers' faces that they won't be bothering her anytime soon. Maybe she'll get used to it, or maybe they'll forget come the new year.

She says, "What'd you say?" and the threat should be clear.

Ester's man deals for Brumly. He's older, graduated the year before they started at Hale. June remembers when they were friendly, her and Ester. Not friends but not enemies, if getting into catfights once or twice makes them that. All she knows is she doesn't like her, and the feeling is real mutual, if the way Ester's face is twisted up is any indication. June finishes switching out her books before she finally gets an answer.

"I hear you was in the car," she says, "when they shot that King cousin of yours. It true?"

June takes a deep breath. "Who's _they_?"

Ester gives her a dirty look—pitying and disgusted all at once. "Don't be stupid, Blue," she says, and the nickname stings. "Everyone knows the boys out in Brumly are tired of playing games."

"You'd know real well, huh," June says, wanting to get out of there already, the hallway not quite deserted while a few others pretend not to eavesdrop, "I hear your man plays you, too. He got a girl out there now, don't he?"

Anger flits across her face. "Watch your mouth," she snaps, but then shakes her head immediately after, cracks a smile that makes June want to lunge. "Aw, June. You ain't even thought of that, huh? Why else would someone shoot some _indio_ this far East? They'd've shot you, too."

Her jaw clenches so tight she can hear her teeth scrape. Monday, after her mother came home from work early, she went down to the police station to give a statement. They said they had no leads, and then she went home and lied on the couch until her mother asked her if she was alright. She _hadn't_ thought to think of why what happened, happened. She's been reliving it, and that don't leave her much time to analyze. She wakes up tired every day.

June says, "You telling me Brumly can't settle shit like men no more?"

"Don't be stupid," Ester says, looking down her nose at her, "you know like I do it's just business. What, you thought he was gonna take care of you forever?" When June says nothing she sneers. "Why you upset for? It couldn've been worse. Could've been a real Mexican and not some half-bree—"

June's daddy taught her how to punch. She's learned, however, that books are hefty weapons, and though Ester's learned to block one she isn't expecting June following it up with a fist. They crash to the floor and someone—not June—starts screaming. She gets hit in the mouth and tastes blood, but soon enough someone's yelling _Teacher!_ She shoves Ester away from her, grabs for her things, and runs in the direction everyone else is going towards. She splits off, though, towards the staircase with the emergency exit on the East side of the building, and the December air is yet another sharp smack.

Just breathing hurts, though that might be because she keeps running until she's near the track field. She has to stop, both hands on her knees while she pants. When she straightens she can see boys racing, no matter that it's cold enough today that her own breath is starting to show in the air, wisps turning to nothing as the wind blows. Maybe they're on the team, like Ponyboy at Rogers. Soda says he's good. She might want to learn for herself if it's true, not that she'll admit it.

It's not time for her to go home yet. She could risk sneaking back in, claim needing a cigarette if she gets caught, but what would that do? Rumors have short lives but she's only fueled a fire today, and if she's unlucky enough, Ester might want to settle the score. She doubts it—she won last time, was clearly going to do so again, but still, the risk is there.

She turns away from the school. Sonny lives—used to live further South. That night she showed him how to sneak into the pool comes to mind: how he was stressed already from King business, how he said for the first time that he had heard rumors he never passed along to June. She wants to be angry but she can't. It's like with her daddy all over again. Maybe later she can be mad at the dead. Today it just aches, like it probably will tomorrow and the day after that.

She finds herself somewhere she's only been a handful of times before. Marcelo Alcaraz has a thing for her, and Sonny never liked it. But he deals like the rest of them, and June ain't got much else to do this Thursday. From the look on his face he's surprised to see her.

"Blue," he says, but doesn't open the door further. "Hey."

She's not sure what she expected from him. "Hi." She curls her fingers around her bag, full of supplies for her last classes of the day, a few dollars tucked inside for an emergency, like her momma always says to keep on her. She thinks this counts as one. "You busy?"

He tilts his head. He's not dressed—jeans on but nothing more than a white undershirt. She can see the tattoo that curls over his bicep, ink that faded green-blue they always seems to turn. He says, "Whadaya need?"

"You holding?"

He stares. Perhaps he wasn't expecting June, or maybe he was expecting something a little different out of her. Finally he says, "C'mon," and she tries to pretend she's not nervous when the door shuts behind her. It's clear a man lives here—beer bottles, the smell of _mota_. He says, "I hear you was there on Saturday."

It's different when Alcaraz asks her. Makes her feel less like a spectacle and more like what she really is—someone caught up, same as anyone else. Nothing special. She says yes and he just shakes his head. Doesn't say anything besides that, just disappears while she lingers in his living room. There are posters up, a TV that's turned on but muted. She sees a newspaper over the coffee table and flinches when she sees one of the headlines, turns her head to stare steadfastly at the stained walls.

When Alcaraz reappears he's got a baggie for her. Says, "I figure you don't know how to roll these," and cracks a grin—like none of it really matters—when she doesn't do anything besides raise an eyebrow at him. "I know Sonny used to take care of you."

"He's dead," she says, trying not to reach for the bag. Her palms are sweaty, bills tucked between her fingers. She wants to go.

"Fucking Brumly," he says, and this time she can tell she's not the only one reeling in the aftermath. "Jax is figuring shit out. Should be settled soon."

"Why are you telling me?" June says. She knows why, and he does too.

"You one of ours, mamita," he says, and then comes too close, their hands touching while he swaps her cash for weed. "You want more, you call me."

"Kings don't jump girls in," she says, an echo of something she must have said to Sonny at least once. She has to tilt her head back to look at him from this angle, and it makes her feel vulnerable, exposed.

"Nah," Alcaraz says, and she tries not to shiver, "but you know how we get, don't you?"

* * *

Soda tries to come see her again and June doesn't let him in the house. He's hurt.

"We can get burgers again," he says, "I just…"

"I know," she says. Tomorrow will make a week since it happened. She didn't go to school today; told her mother she didn't feel well. Maybe after break Ester will track her down or else they'll go back to quietly seething like every kid on the Eastside does, a nasty habit to join the rest. She's barely sobered up, bedroom airing out so the house won't stink. The boys are at one of their friends' homes, like they are every Friday. She hasn't gotten dressed yet.

He says, "How're you feeling?" and seems to want an honest answer.

June can't give him one. She says to him, instead, "Christmas is coming up."

"Yeah," he says. She knows what he's thinking as he says it. "You should come by."

"Neither of your brothers want me around," she says, hurting them both in the process.

"They're your—"

"Maybe," she says. He's on the porch, expression pleading while they remain separated by the screen door. She says, "Before I had brothers I had Sonny." Tries not to notice the way Soda's face twists up, pained in too many ways to count. "Did you tell them?"

"Tell them what?"

"What happened. That I was there."

Soda flinches. He looks away from her. "It was in the papers."

"Not all of it."

"It happened to us, too," he says. He's a little fiercer, this time. He looks like their father. "One of our buddies, he—" He breaks off. "I know you was in the car, that night. I know it ain't easy. But I don't want you to…Ponyboy, afterwards, he…we didn't know if we'd get him back."

She presses her hands to the screen. She says, "Fourteen's real young to see all that. I read the papers, too."

"You ain't much older, honey," he says, and grins a little at the face she makes. He says, "C'mon, June."

"I don't wanna be out."

"So let me in."

"I ain't dressed."

"Then get dressed!" He's somewhere between amused and exasperated. "You hungry? I'll pick us up some burgers. I can cook, too."

"Ponyboy said y'all switch off," she says, and feels shier for it. It's like admitting to something she's been hiding—that she thinks of all of them, or that she remembers things besides what he implied about her mother. Maybe she wants to forgive him…or at the very least get even. She's pretty sure that's how siblings work, anyway.

"Yeah," Soda says, "'s his turn tonight. You wanna see how good a cook he is? He ain't as fun as me."

"Whadaya mean, fun?"

"You should come over more," he says, as if she's been over more than twice, that second visit barely counting. "You and Darry can team-up, too."

"He said—"

"I know," he interrupts, serious again. "You gotta try to see it like he does. Two kids and the state on his back. A murder case back in September. It's complicated. You just gotta give him a chance."

She squints at him. "Does he want a chance?"

"Yeah," Soda says, "of course he does."

She sneaks out that night. Before, Soda manages to convince her that dinner is a good idea, and they pick up fast food and eat it in the car. He insists on paying like he always does, and when he shares stories about Ponyboy and Darry and himself he doesn't sound apologetic afterwards like he usually does. She wants to offer her own memories, but all of them have Sonny and she can't say his name right now, not after that conversation with Alcaraz.

When he drops her off she says, "I'll see what my ma says about Christmas," and when he smiles he looks so much like their daddy it hurts.

She waits until the house is asleep. Her mother is still working doubles, still working herself to the bone. The funeral's tomorrow, but not everything can change. That includes June.

Every part of Tulsa has a piece of Sonny in it. Not just the house she's lived in, where he'd swing around the kitchen or the backyard when they were smaller. It's in the streets they used to drive down, the stores they'd duck in and out of, even before he ran with the Kings. She can feel it under her skin—the two of them are still blood, no matter that he's gone now.

She only showed him how to break into the school pool once, but she can almost pretend he's sitting there waiting for her when she jumps in. The shock of it makes her gasp, nothing but the press of cold water all around her. It cuts through her second buzz of the day, the joint in her jacket pocket half-smoked. If it were summer and they were at the pool, it would always be her who jumped straight in and Sonny who would wade. There's a metaphor somewhere there that she's missing, but she's barely passing English as it is.

Maybe Sonny wouldn't want her running with those brothers, half or no. Maybe he didn't want her getting hurt, or maybe he was being selfish. June is selfish too, though. If she weren't she would have never gone to see them in the first place, and she'd have nothing now that Sonny's gone. She doesn't have the energy to think about his last words. What it means that June wasn't a secret, that Caroline Curtis knew and did nothing. She doesn't even know if that's true, after all. It doesn't seem to matter much right now as she floats in the water, chilled to the core.

Nothing matters. Maybe not even June. She sinks lazily, muscles locked like she's forgotten how to even float, let alone win races in the summers. It could be easy, maybe. For her, for everyone else.

But then she remembers Soda. His face when she said he was only half, the way he wants to prove her wrong. She remembers the paper she read, the one that told her she had brothers, that she wasn't alone. It's when the newsprint flashes in her memory—_attempted drowning_, _hero orphan_—that her body moves on instinct, and then she's kicking upwards and breaking the surface of the water again.

Her breathing is loud in the quiet of the pool. She manages to pull herself out before slumping back, suddenly exhausted. Not just from the day but the month, the year, even. School's barely been out since that afternoon and yet here she is. She wonders what her daddy would say, if he knew she was sitting here half-stoned and untethered like she's never been.

A flare of anger lances through her. She could trace everything back to him, if she really wanted. The River Kings, all these secrets, Sonny dead and June wanting something close. How could he leave her with all of this left to unpack? Her eyes burn, hot, and when she breathes next it catches in her throat. Soon enough the tears come. It makes her feel small, like a child. All she knows is that she's tired. There's not much else to do but go home.

Her mother's already there when she arrives, and she gears up for the argument—home after midnight, soaking wet in the middle of winter, reeking just a little bit of mota. Her mother must be at her wit's end with her, though maybe that could have been said anytime in the last few months.

When all she says is her name, June scowls.

"What," she snaps, "that's all you ever say. What d'you really wanna tell me?"

Her mother looks so different. Nothing like their last argument, nothing like the mother she remembers from just a year ago. It's like the fight's gone from her, too. She says, "You think I ain't seen you like this before?"

June falls quiet. Her mother is still in her uniform. She looks exhausted, but there's that spark she was missing. The set jaw. Sometimes June looks in the mirror and can only see her mother. She hasn't decided how to feel about it.

Her mother says, "I know everything about you, baby. I knew you was running 'round with Sonny when I didn't want it. But he's my dead brother's son and as good as mine, too." She pauses, like she's remembering what happened to them both. She says, eyes burning, "You think I don't know you're hurting? You think I ain't, too?"

"You don't get it," June says, and her voice breaks. She's trembling. "You're never here, there's no one else but me—"

"You think I don't know?" she repeats. Her eyes are darker than June's. She's more serious, too, and June thinks she's a pretty serious person as is. Not like her daddy was. Soda's so much like him, it makes her wonder how the other two act. Wonders if maybe it's not just her that feels like the odd one out. "I don't want that shit in my house no more, but tell me, baby, if I say you're stuck in the house the next two weeks you gonna listen? Be honest."

She shakes her head when June stays quiet. Her clothes are damp; she's cold. But she can't move from where she's standing, in the doorway to the kitchen, her mother clearly just trying to grab a glass of water before bed.

She says, "It's gonna get worse before it gets better."

Tears spill down June's face. She doesn't bother wiping at them. "You don't get it."

"I wasn't there," she says, "'course I don't. But you gotta tell me what you need, baby. Lemme help you."

"Mom," she says, and her voice is tender enough to wound. Her mother comes close and June meets her halfway, tucks herself against her and closes her eyes. Immediately she feels warmer.

"I want things to be easier for you," her mother says. "I'm sorry I can't make it so they are. I don't want you running wild but if I ain't around to beat it outta you, whose fault is that?"

"You don't beat me," June says, muffled, and squeezes back when her mother clutches her close.

"If I did I'd've needed to beat Sonny too," she says, and her voice finally cracks. "You shouldn't've had to see that. I'm sorry, babe. I'm sorry."

"It ain't even been a week," June says. She's probably ruining this uniform. "How's it get better, huh."

Her mother makes her look up at her. She says, "You don't get a choice, alright? We all have to keep living. One day it won't be the first thing you think of when you wake up. It gets better 'cause it has to."

June says, "You don't think of daddy anymore, then?"

Her expression is very serious. "I think of him every day. Every time I look at you. And it ain't a bad thing, it's just the truth. You got too much ahead of you to get stuck at fifteen, though, June. This city ain't gonna ruin you like it does half the kids 'round these parts, alright? Promise me."

"Alright."

"You gotta believe me."

"Can I believe you tomorrow?" she says. Her voice is small. Her mother cups her face.

"Yeah," she says, "tomorrow will be better."

* * *

At the door, Layli Pain and Layli Joy. A child-self enters with me.  
Layli Think and Layli Do, they soft step to the threshold I imagine.  
I want no resolution to this friendship of self, halved into halves.  
Pain, you boss and lord this existence slow as white blooms  
along the sky crumpling into themselves then loosely breaking  
away away I call my name. I wait for my return, strange  
strange stepping toward me I see / no one.

(Layli Long Soldier, "King")


End file.
